


Literary Pursuits

by mercymain (antivanarmada), ohsocyanide



Series: Spring's Invisible Law [2]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Awkward Flirting, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Smut, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hair Kink, Hand Jobs, Heavy Petting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Rare Pairings, Rarepair, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 23:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 81,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12543268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antivanarmada/pseuds/mercymain, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohsocyanide/pseuds/ohsocyanide
Summary: No one can stay positive all of the time, and the same is true for Sam, Pelican Town's resident ball of sunshine. But when he starts to feel truly beaten down by life and love, he may need some extra help to bring him back to where he needs to be... and that help might just need to come from a reclusive writer on the edge of town who's got enough on his mind as it is.





	1. Chapter 1

It was five in the morning on what should have been a perfectly normal Thursday, and Sam Underhill was not in bed.

 

Instead, he was on the beach and covered in sand: sweat dried at the base of his spine, fine grains of salt and sand caked in the creases and crevices of his body. He had sand in places sand truly did not belong, bruises where he’d stumbled and tripped over pieces of fallen driftwood when he trekked down the beach to find a good place to piss. His toes were sore from stepping on spiny seashells and narrowly avoiding the angry pincers of small sand crabs; a girl from the next town over had stepped on his foot in her haste to clamber over Sam and into Sebastian’s lap.

 

Sam’s last drink had been a beer several hours ago. It was lukewarm and cheap, the sort of stuff they sold at Joja before the corporation shut down, but he had spent a good portion of the night slamming them back and muttering fruitlessly about how he would not, under any circumstances, be the one to comfort the newest addition to Sebastian’s string of conquests once he’d finished with her. Not again, not this time.

 

He had work in four hours, and Vincent was expecting Sam to walk him to meet Penny before that, and he was sure the trash would need taken out so his mom didn’t have to worry about doing it, yet he found himself doing exactly what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do.

 

No matter how much Sam hated picking up the pieces of whatever Sebastian inevitably broke, he always did it. Sebastian had grown to expect it with the last few girls, always shooting Sam a knowing look as if he knew Sam couldn’t stand to leave a girl crying or ashamed because she thought Sebastian was interested in more than the skin she’d sent him a picture of in a text message.

 

Sam knew better: he knew that these girls were worth more than the value Sebastian put on each of them, yet he wasn’t any better than Sebastian simply for the fact that he never did anything to change Sebastian’s perspective. Leaving him to clean up his own messes would be the first step, Sam theorized, but like a dutiful janitor Sam swept up the messes Sebastian made and cleanly, quietly, corrected them.

 

What good would it do, anyway?

 

Sam dropped into a place on the sand next to the girl sitting in front of the fire pit. He crossed his legs Indian-style like they used to in elementary physical education class, tender toes digging deep into the sooty sand piled around the rocks surrounding the flames. The girl—her name was Janae, he thought—stared straight into the waning embers of the fire, face drawn taut and unhappy.

 

After several beats of painful silence, Janae said, “He’s not really going to call me, is he?”

 

“Did he say he would?”

 

Janae looked up, over at Sam. Her lips were wide and pink, brown nose a soft button in the heart shaped planes of her face. She had a seagull feather in her hair, Sam noted, but he refrained from reaching up to pluck it out. Too intimate, he decided, and he always hated when Sebastian teased him about moving in on the girls he hooked up with.

 

“He said he would text,” she admitted quickly, eyes darting back to the embers glowing before them.

 

Sam sighed and wracked his brain for the usual spiel. Did this girl need the Tough Love Talk, or would she require a gentler approach? Did she need to hear that all men, including Sam himself, were assholes? All girls handled it differently: some treated Sebastian the same as he treated them, while others were completely heartbroken once the whole affair was said and done. There were also the girls who flocked to Sam once they realized Sebastian was no longer interested. Those were the ones Sam hated the most, the ones with the stink of Sebastian’s Camel Crush cigarettes still clinging to their hair. Sam avoided those girls when he could. He couldn’t read this girl, not like he normally did the others, so he sucked in a quick breath and decided to approach it like he would a bandage.

 

“He’s not going to,” Sam said, words bubbling up and out like the bile caught at the back of his throat.

 

“He said he would,” she argued, tone hopeful.

 

Because of course Sam’s best friend made this girl think she was different, special, somehow. Sam highly doubted that she even knew Sebastian—not well, at least—because if she did, she would know that Sebastian never texted girls once he finished with them. She would know that he already had another girl on the line, the next hookup for when the boredom kicked in and he felt like he would crawl out of his skin if he didn’t get out of Pelican Town and in someone.

 

Sam didn’t say this out loud.

 

“There’s a difference between saying you’ll do something and actually doing it,” Sam sighed. “You’re a beautiful girl, and—”

 

Sam was graced with the briefest second to think _oh shit_ and then the girl’s eyes crinkled, her face crumpled, and she promptly burst into tears. He rifled through the useless information he had compiled on dealing with emotional women in the twenty-two-year span of his life and came up short, the only subjects of his studies having been his mother and Abigail.

 

Like any other time when he got anxious, or nervous, or uncomfortable, the only thing that came to mind was random facts on the rock stars he read about in biographies. Watching the girl cry and desperate to make her stop, Sam blurted, “Did you know Axl Rose is an anagram for oral sex?”

 

The girl proceeded to cry harder.

 

Sam catalogued that in a mental list of _things to not say when a woman is crying_ and scrambled for his next step. “Please don’t cry,” he pled, partially because seeing anyone cry made his stomach hurt but also because Janae was really crying now, hard enough for people leaving the party to shoot concerned glances in their direction. When that didn’t work, he settled for resting an arm around her shoulders and letting her cry messily into the sleeve of his t-shirt. She wasn’t a dainty crier; her sobs steadily increased in volume and her shoulders shook. Sam didn’t know much about women, but he had a feeling there was more to this than Janae being screwed over by his best friend.

 

Sam patted awkwardly at her arm and mentally cursed Sebastian. He knew Sebastian had probably disappeared the second he got laid, which was likely the point of the entire party anyways. Once Sebastian had gone through all the single girls in Pelican Town, he was forced to look elsewhere and that required him to either go outside of town limits or bring outsiders in.

 

Sam had to physically restrain himself from shouting out another random fact about whatever rock star came to mind and instead stated, over the volume of the girl’s sobs, “People leave, Janae, and it’s better if you find that out now rather than five or ten years down the road when you’re married with kids. Sebastian’s not the first guy to do this to you, is he?”

 

Voice muffled by Sam’s shirt, Janae hiccupped, “No.”

 

“If you keep doing this—falling for every guy who says the right things when you want to hear them—he won’t be the last, either.”

 

When Sam said this, she stopped crying. Janae pulled back from Sam’s tear-soaked shoulder and rubbed at the mascara staining the skin below her eyes. She sucked in a shaky breath and said, voice uneven, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

 

Sam didn’t answer that question. Answering that question would incriminate Sebastian, and ladies’ man or not, he was still Sam’s best friend. Sam pulled his arm away from Janae’s shoulders and rested his hands on his knees, clenching and unclenching his fists.

 

Sam wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to be home and far, far away from the conversation taking place. He had done this job—comforting Sebastian’s hookups—for going on three years, and it never got any easier.

 

“Janae!”

 

Janae’s head snapped up at the sound of her name. Her body tensed next to Sam’s as she caught sight of the friend she'd brought with her tonight—a gift from Sebastian to Sam, twisted as it was—and she stood abruptly. Janae brushed the sand from the backs of her thighs and sent it showering over Sam. She cast a look down at him, eyes red and glossy. “Hey, thanks for the talk.”

 

Sam shrugged. “Anytime, Janae.”

 

Her mouth twisted into a sad smile, and she plucked her shoes from where they lay abandoned next to a beach chair. She walked away from the fire pit, sandals dangling from the tips of her fingers. Sam watched as she caught up to her friend and they linked arms, necks craned so their temples pressed together. Sam imagined they were whispering furiously to one another, swapping details of the night’s events as quickly as they could. Sebastian and Sam would do that later on, minus the linked arms and the rushed details. When Sebastian disclosed information on his hookups, it was never particularly in-depth. It was shared over Solarion Chronicles or between shots at their regular Friday night pool game, often nothing more than a few stunted sentences from Sebastian on whatever girl he’d met. Sam could bank on the fact that Sebastian’s stories would always start with, “So I met this girl…” and end in, “When’s the last time you slept with someone, Sammy?”

 

Sam tried to muster up the bright outlook he typically had for the day ahead, but the anxiety churning in his stomach and the fatigue threatening to slam his eyes shut didn’t allow it. His world was tinged gray this morning, lifeless and dull. It provided a stark contrast to the brilliant yellow lens he typically tried to view the world through. Sam closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands into the sockets hard, until stars blossomed across the backs of his eyelids and the world started to spin. He sat there for what felt like ages but could only have been a few brief seconds trying to pinpoint where, exactly, the night had gone wrong.

 

“Did I hear someone crying out here?”

 

Sam’s looked up at the voice. The accent was a little too posh for Pelican Town standards, thick with the dregs of sleep but somehow still refined. Elliott Walton.

 

He stood there in a housecoat and slippers. The housecoat hung open to reveal a pair of striped pajama bottoms and a t-shirt with a pinup version of Oscar Wilde on it, the slogan “Oscar Gone Wilde” emblazoned across the bottom. Elliott’s hair was a mess: auburn ends tangled, sleep-mussed and messy. An errant piece of bang stuck straight in the air; it looked as though Elliott had spent a good portion of his night tearing his hands through his hair. Or maybe someone _else_ had spent a good portion of the night running hands through Elliott’s hair. Sam didn’t know, not really, since what little knowledge he had on the enigmatic author was a product of either the town’s rumor mill or Sam’s own poorly based assumptions.

 

Sam blinked the stars from his vision and stared at the enormous pair of breasts on Oscar Wilde’s chest, trying desperately to reconcile what little he knew of the Elliott the public saw and the one standing before him now. Elliott snapped his housecoat shut and wrapped his arms around his abdomen self-consciously.

 

“There was a girl crying just a few minutes ago,” Sam explained when he remembered that Elliott had asked him a question and was probably expecting an answer in return. Realization dawning, he asked, “Did it wake you?”

 

Elliott flicked a piece of hair behind his shoulder, an arm still clutching the silk housecoat close to his body. “She wasn’t exactly quiet about it,” he hedged. “I would imagine she woke Mr. Mullner even without his hearing aids.”

 

Sam choked on a laugh and smeared a hand across his face. “I’m sorry, Elliott. She’s gone now, off with her friends, so you shouldn’t be interrupted again.”

 

Elliott gave a short, curt nod, chin ducking down to his chest once. “Very well. Goodnight, Sam.”

 

Feeling sleep deprived, stupid, or maybe a combination of both, Sam glanced up at the rapidly lightening sky and blurted, “It’s five in the morning.”

 

Elliott’s entire body stilled. Even his housecoat, which had previously fluttered about his long legs with the breeze stirring on the beach, seemed to cease moving. He cast his face to the sky as if to verify Sam’s statement. The sky was pink-streaked, starry in the very heart of the universe but melting from inky black to the most brilliant of oranges where the sun kissed the sea and shuttered light across the choppy waves.

 

“You’re absolutely correct. It _is_ morning.”

 

Despite the general shitty quality of the night, Sam found himself smiling. “Thanks for verifying that, Elliott. Telling time is a major player in my already slim skill set.”

 

Cocking a brow, Elliott said, “Speaking of your skill set… Talking about Axl Rose and whatever filthy anagram his name is comprised of while your date cries hysterically into your shoulder is not the best way to kick off a new relationship, if I may be so bold.”

 

“She wasn’t my date,” Sam interjected.

 

Elliott yawned hugely. “I know the age gap between us isn’t too terribly wide, but do people your age call it something else now, if not a date?”

 

“No,” Sam said, tone impatient. “I mean—people my age call it a hookup, not that you’d know—not because you’re old, Yoba, I didn’t mean it like that—but because you’re, like, a romance author.” Sam felt that familiar sensation of the conversation spinning horribly out of his control, but he wasn’t entirely sure on how to rein it back into safe territory.

 

Elliott shot Sam a self-deprecatory smile. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Sam,” he murmured. “To be a romance author, I’d have to write a book, wouldn’t I?”

 

“But—”

 

“Anyways,” the older man said breezily, “It’s late—or early, depending on how you look at it, and I need my rest. I hope your next hookup goes better than the one I had the privilege of stumbling upon.” Elliott winked and asked, “Did I use that term correctly?”

 

A sensation like a fishhook jerking just behind his bellybutton ballooned in Sam’s abdomen. It felt not unlike a big dip on a rollercoaster; Sam’s stomach was caught in limbo between pleasant and uncomfortable. He felt vaguely as though he could vomit, all because Elliott Walton had closed one eye and not the other. “Uh,” Sam stuttered, “I think you did.”

 

Mouth curving into the suggestion of a smile, Elliott said, “Perfect. Good morning, Sam,” and then he promptly turned heel, entered the cabin, and closed the door firmly behind him.

 

Feeling utterly hopeless and off-track, Sam looked at the front door of the cabin and said, to no one in particular, “It wasn’t a date.”

 

*

 

Sam spent the short walk home rehashing the night’s events. Sebastian had, as predicated, ducked out of the party after getting what he came for, so Sam ambled home alone and tried not to think too terribly hard about Janae or Oscar Gone Wilde and his unusual wearer. The city was barely awake; in the distance, Sam heard Poppy’s chickens cawing in tandem to Marnie’s cows. Poppy, with her unusual hours and her love of mornings, was probably already awake and ready to start her day.

 

No one else in town—with the exception of Leah, Poppy’s wife—would be awake for the next hour or so.

 

Sam unlocked the front door with the key his mom kept under the mat and relocked it behind him. Shuffling wearily to the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and stood with the small of his back pressed against the lip of the counter. He was tired down to his bones, he realized, but there was no use in going to sleep when he wouldn’t be guaranteed more than an hour or two. Not when the trash needed taking out, and Vincent needed taken to school, and Sam stank of bonfire and cigarettes.

 

His mind whirred with thoughts of the day ahead: trash, Vincent, work, Vincent, home. It would be a slow day working for Poppy on the farm. She hadn’t had too many orders yesterday, not like she had last weekend when she called him in and offered to pay him double if he’d help her set up the floral arrangements for a big wedding in Zuzu. And Vincent—he’d be simple enough; Sam had agreed to take him to the beach when he got off work…

 

Draining his glass of orange juice in a few quick gulps, Sam padded down the hall and poked a head into Vincent’s room. His little brother, no more than a lump beneath the twisted blankets on the bed, had only been three when their dad was deployed. Sam paused at his parents’ door next. His mother slept smack in the center of the queen-sized mattress, small form dwarfed by the size of the bed. Four years ago, she slept on her edge and never rolled too close to the middle for fear of waking her husband. She was used to sleeping alone now, and Sam wondered how she would transition back to sleeping stock-still so as not to jar Dad or wake him as he slept if he made it home. _When,_ Sam reminded himself. _When Dad made it home._

 

Sam closed the door to just a crack and tracked back down the hall, slipping into the bathroom. He closed the door and rested his back against it, closing his eyes against the brilliant fluorescence of the bathroom lights. When he closed his eyes, he saw Oscar Wilde with his big fake breasts and Elliott’s wink and sly smile. Sam only allowed himself to rest for a moment before he stripped off his clothes, twisted the handle to turn on the shower, and ducked into the still-warming water.

 

It didn’t matter that Janae still seemed hopeful even after Sebastian left her high and dry. It didn’t matter that Sam’s father had been deployed and was scheduled to come home sometime within the next year. It didn’t matter than Elliott Walton had, for whatever reason, winked at him.

 

Sam Underhill stood beneath the spray of the shower, washing away the night’s wear, and he knew deep in his stomach that he wasn’t entirely sure he could believe in love.

 

Not now, and especially not after everything he had seen.


	2. Chapter 2

For someone who turned away from his family and friends and uprooted his entire future to chase the life of a writer, Elliott Walton spent very little time writing. He spent quite a bit of time _trying_ to write, to be fair. But his publisher didn’t care how many hours Elliott spent looking at empty pages before writing a single paragraph only to scratch it out furiously later. His publisher, a meek man with thick glasses and a wiry beard, only cared that Elliott had promised him a finished novel months ago and was yet to deliver.

 

Not that Elliott needed to be reminded of that fact. His book had been bedeviling him for close to three years now. When he had started out, Elliott had meant for it to be a tour de force work; his magnum opus that would force readers to reexamine the age-old themes of love and loss, duty and courage. Upon review, however, Elliott felt like a fool for ever having such lofty ambitions. Reading back over his work, Elliott saw only an uninspired patchwork of tired tropes and stilted dialogue.

 

It would have made him happier at this point to take his manuscript and throw it into the sea, but that wasn’t an option. He was under contract. And so, terrible or no, his book would be published. It was simply a matter of figuring out just how he wanted it to end. And the thing about writing an ending to a novel, Elliott now realized, was that it was terribly difficult to do so if you didn’t actually want your book to end. And Elliott certainly didn’t. Because finally closing out his book would only be the first in what was to be a very long sequence of embarrassments.

 

Upon sending out his finalized work, the first stop would be his poor publisher, who would now have definitive proof that his gamble on his pet project - the precocious up-and-coming novelist from the country - had been a mistake after all. Then his book would be published and distributed, where it would be skewered and derided by readers and critics across the country. And then the pitiful story would make its way back to his hometown where his parents, teachers, friends, and old colleagues would all be able to read it and shake their heads. They would reach out to him, telling him it was a nice try, but didn’t he see now that they had been right all along? For every successful writer there are one thousand failures, and he shouldn’t beat himself up for being one of those one thousand. Time to come home now and stop playing pretend.

 

It was all enough to make his hair fall out.

 

And so it was with all this on his mind that Elliott was eventually pulled from his uneasy rest. The intensity of the light glaring through his threadbare curtains led him to believe that it was much later in the day than he was used to waking up. A glance at his bedside clock confirmed that he had slept well into the afternoon, which was unusual for him but also hardly surprising, given that he had been up since four in the morning rewriting his rewrites of the book’s ninth chapter. The pages were still piled on his writing desk.

 

He would have been tired from that alone, but then he had been yanked from sleep just an hour later by whatever had been going on outside of his house. In the moment he had been far too exhausted to understand the finer details of what exactly happened, but he knew it was something involving Sam Underhill and a crying girl. A very _loud_ crying girl. Elliott understood that the beach was a charming place to take a lover, but he wished that Sam would have picked a spot further away before breaking the poor girl’s heart, whoever she was. But it was of no concern to Elliott now. He had a very busy day of minding his own business ahead of him.

 

Groaning slightly, Elliott rolled over in bed and assessed how he was feeling. The problem with sleeping this late during the summertime was that if he didn’t wake up early enough to open the windows and catch the morning breeze, his cabin got unbearably hot. And now with the sun beating down on his little shack for hours, Elliott found that his hair, clothes, and sheets were soaked with sweat. The lack of a central cooling system was by far the worst part of Elliott’s living situation. He had a fireplace to keep him warm during the winter, and he only had that because Poppy had been generous enough to pay Robin for the construction herself. But in the warmer months, outside of his lazy ceiling fan, he was more or less on his own. With a sigh, he kicked his legs out over the bed and tied his matted and damp hair up into a bun with a ribbon he kept in his bedside drawer.

 

He sat for a few moments on the edge of the bed collecting his thoughts before finally pushing himself up and stretching, wincing at the sound of how many joints he heard popping in response. How sad that someone just barely into his thirties was left feeling so old more often than not. Poppy and Leah would often joke that he spent so much time thinking about long-dead novelists that his body was only trying to catch up to them.

 

Thinking of his dear friends, his mood lightened a little. He would be seeing them this evening for dinner - a welcome respite from what would otherwise be another night spent alone beating himself up over prepositions and independent clauses.

 

He had a good couple of hours until then, however. Elliott walked to his windows and threw back the curtains, quickly recoiling from the sudden burst of light that spilled into his cabin. Squinting, he could see the blurry figure of someone on the far end of the beach. His eyes were still adjusting, however, and he turned away before he could discern who exactly it was. He caught a glimpse of bright blonde hair and felt fairly confident in assuming that it was Haley, who practically lived on the beach in the summer. Not that she ever paid him any mind. Not that anyone in town paid him any mind, for that matter.

 

Relishing in the feeling of the sun’s rays hitting his face, Elliott peeled off his sweat-drenched shirt and pants and absentmindedly tossed them onto the floor. He normally slept naked whenever possible to avoid this very problem, but he had hastily thrown on whatever pajamas he could find when he decided to go investigate the source of the sobbing outside this morning. Upon going back inside, he had been too tired to remember to take them off again. Now standing only in his boxers, he pushed open the windows and was immediately greeted by a delightful gust of air that cooled the sweat on his bare skin. The breeze smelled of the ocean, and he breathed it in deeply with his eyes closed before turning and heading toward his modest kitchen.

 

Yawning deeply, he began to prepare a pot of coffee. As it percolated, he regarded his kitchen. It was nothing fancy - his sink was piled high with dishes, and his fridge and small gas burner stove and oven were quite old. But he loved it all the same. These, too, were gifts from Poppy. Prior to that he had simply gotten his meals from the saloon, by foraging, or through the charity of his neighbors. He had purchased this cabin with most of the dividends he had leftover from signing his book contract with the publisher, and it had come without a kitchen.

 

His simple way of living had never been a point of shame for him, though. He hadn’t moved out to the valley so that he could live lavishly. He had always believed that honest writing came when a writer was struggling. Hunger, cold, isolation, poverty - these things, Elliott used to believe, were all necessary to strip down a writer to the core of their talent. Except having now experienced all of these things, Elliott was forced to roll his eyes at his past naïveté. As it turned out, being hungry and poor didn't mean that you suddenly became an amazing writer. It just meant you were hungry and poor.

 

Poppy had told him that the first time they had met. She was bolder than Leah, who had always chided him gently and told him her door was open if he ever needed help. For Leah, independence and respect for others was her guiding principle; she would never lecture another person for how they chose to live their life unless she thought they were causing genuine harm. But Poppy was the sort of person who was borderline aggressive in her desire to be kind. She had taken one look at his meager situation, asked how in the hell he could live like this, and then rolled her sleeves up and got to work. He owed much to her, and he knew that.  

 

At that moment, a strong wind tore through the open windows and set the pages on his writing desk flying. Elliott watched blankly as chapter nine was knocked up and scattered all around the floor. In a comedy, Elliott would have cried out and chased the pages, trying to snatch them furiously out of the air. Maybe he would have even done so a few years ago, back when he had some modicum of pride and enthusiasm for his work. But as it was, Elliott today was simply tired. Of everything. Rubbing his temple with his free hand and pouring himself a cup of coffee with the other, Elliott yawned again and walked outside.

 

*

 

The day was sweltering, and Elliott made a mental note to go buy more sunscreen at Pierre’s when he got the chance. He thought for a moment that he might be embarrassed if others in town saw him right now - he had come outside still only wearing his boxers. Normally, he would be mortified. But the day was truly hot, and he would just sweat through whatever he put on within a few minutes. And besides, he was on a beach, not strolling through town square. If he had to see Haley splayed out on the sand in her bikini and Alex lifting weights on the beach in his speedo everyday, then they could stand to see a grown man in his shorts standing outside of his own property.

 

Although, looking around, Elliott didn’t see either of them. Taking a sip of coffee, he scanned the beach to try to find whoever he had glimpsed from inside a few minutes ago. And then he found them.

 

Sam Underhill was standing at the edge of the water, and Elliott’s breath caught in his throat.

 

Elliott didn’t know Sam. Not really. Their brief interaction this morning had been perhaps the most extended conversation they had ever had in the three years that Elliott had lived here. They could be considered friendly acquaintances perhaps, but Elliott had never given the younger man so much as a second glance. So why was it that right now Elliott could never remember seeing a more beautiful person in his entire life?

 

Sam was holding his younger brother Vincent’s hand, and the two were chasing the waves as they rolled back out to sea and running madly away when they came crashing back. Neither of them had noticed Elliott, but he could hear their laughter pealing over the sound of the surf. Sam was wearing short red swimming trunks that clung to his skin and pulled at Elliott’s attention. He didn’t want to stare. He really didn’t. But something about Sam right there and then captivated Elliott with an intensity he hadn’t felt in years.

 

Perhaps it was because his normally intricately styled hair was wet and blasted back from the waves, making him seem more mature and natural. Maybe it was because Elliott had never seen him shirtless before, and so he had never realized just how toned and strapping his figure was. Maybe it was the way that the sunshine was bouncing off of Sam’s wet and glistening skin, making it seem for all the world that Sam himself was shining. Or maybe it was simply his smile. Elliott found his gaze captivated on Sam’s laughing face and thought that he had never seen another smile that conveyed as much carefree charm as Sam’s did. He looked to be simply bursting with joy. This was a man, Elliott reasoned, who must live a life completely free from real troubles and pain. He seemed to be a person who radiated his own light.

 

After what felt like minutes of standing there transfixed, Elliott finally snapped himself out of it. He shook his head back and forth quickly and knocked back some more coffee. It burned his throat on the way down, but that was a welcome distraction. He was grateful to have anything to focus on other than Sam and his tempting body.

 

Against his better judgment, Elliott risked another glance. To his horror, he saw that Sam was staring directly at him. Panicking, Elliott took an unconscious step backwards and felt for the door behind him so that he could retreat back into his cabin. But it was too late. Sam waved at him and began to jog over after indicating to Vincent that he would be back soon. Elliott had no choice but to meekly wave back and brace himself.

 

Sam came to a stop about a foot away from Elliott, and he stood with his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“Hey,” he said with a laugh.

 

“H-Hello,” Elliott stuttered before clearing his throat. Some slick wet strands of hair had dropped in front of Sam’s eyes, and Elliott tried not to audibly gulp as Sam looked him straight in the face and distractedly licked his lips. “Good morning, Sam.”

 

A wicked grin cut across Sam’s face before he replied, “It’s actually afternoon now. You’re all mixed up today, huh?”

 

Elliott blinked and stared at Sam for a moment before remembering their back and forth this morning. And then he was laughing before he realized it, because of course the only writer in town who was supposed to know how to string a conversation together would be this embarrassing two interactions in a row. As his laughter eventually died down he worried distractedly that, having only just woken up and now laughing like an idiot, he might look quite foolish to Sam at the moment. But when he opened his eyes again he saw that Sam wasn’t watching his face at all. His smile had waned a little and his eyes were locked onto Elliott’s body.

 

It happened in the span of maybe two or three seconds, hardly discernible if you weren’t paying attention, but Sam’s trail of vision clearly followed down from Elliott’s chest towards the waistband of his boxers. Immediately  remembering his current state of undress, Elliott coughed out of pure nervousness and righted his posture.

 

“I’m truly sorry,” he said, the words spilling out, “I’m dressed quite inappropriately.”

 

Sam’s eyes shot back up to meet Elliott’s, and his face lit up with a bright blush.

 

“No, no need to apologize! You’re more covered than I am anyway. I’m just not used to seeing you without that coat.”

 

“Ah yes. Well I admit that I take appearances very seriously, but I can’t have that on all the time.”

 

“I know that now,” Sam said, his grin returning. “Sometimes you wear an ‘Oscar Gone Wilde’ shirt.”

 

Now it was Elliott’s turn to blush. Damn Poppy and Leah for giving him that joke shirt for his birthday, and damn him for ever wearing it outside of his cabin. Sam clearly noticed his discomfort and barked out another laugh, waving his hands in front of him.

 

“Not that I’m making fun of you! I liked it.”

 

“Is that so? Well...that’s good then. But please don’t go spreading that around.”

 

“You got it.” Sam leaned in, his voice dropping low conspiratorially. “I’m really good at keeping secrets.”

 

Elliott laughed again, feeling at ease. Sam regarded him warmly, and Elliott found himself lost in the dizzying effect of his smile once more.

 

“Anyway,” Sam offered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m glad I caught you.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah. I, uh - I still feel really bad about waking you up this morning. Well... it wasn’t really _me_ that woke you up.”

 

“No, your date did.”

 

“No! I mean yeah, she’s the one that woke you up, but - Yoba, I tried to tell you then that she wasn’t my date.”

 

“Your hookup then, was it not?”

 

Elliott’s tone was playful, but his eyes were searching. Sam was blushing again, and this time it reached all the way up to his ears. He let out a sharp sigh in exasperation and Elliott faltered for a moment, fearing that he had actually offended him.

 

“Elliott, I’m serious,” he said painstakingly. “Not a date, not a hookup. I’m the most single person that I know. And even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be bringing my dates to your cabin in the middle of the night. I just wanted to apologize for letting my personal problems inconvenience you.”

 

“Well, I certainly appreciate that.”

 

So Sam was unattached, then. Not that it made any difference in the grand scheme of things. Elliott certainly didn’t have a use for that knowledge. And yet the pressure in his chest dissipated all the same.

 

Sam had been staring intently at Elliott as he spoke, but now a measured silence fell over them. He seemed unsure of where to take the conversation from here. Elliott was too, admittedly.

 

“I better get back,” Sam said, somewhat reluctantly. “But I guess I’ll, ya know, see you later? Not that you ever really go out. Which is fine.”

 

“I do tend to keep to myself, you’re correct,” Elliott conceded, feeling self-conscious again. “It’s the nature of my work, I suppose.”

 

“I get that. But if you wanted to get out more I, uh - wouldn’t mind. Seeing you around, that is.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Sam beamed before heading back towards the other end of the beach where his brother waited patiently. Once he was a couple yards away, however, he suddenly turned around and called back to Elliott.

 

“For real though, it wasn’t a date!”

 

And then he was running back to Vincent. Elliott was in his cabin with his back against the front door in seconds. He was sweating and his face was flushed. Which was entirely from the sun and nothing else, he told himself firmly. But still.  It hadn’t been a date, he repeated to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks already for the comments and kudos from the first chapter. We have so much good stuff coming up and we hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

Sam took Vincent to the beach on both of his days off that weekend.

 

It wasn’t even that Sam was particularly fond of the beach, if he was going to be completely honest with himself. Between the sand, the crabs, and Haley’s insistence at taking “candids” whenever the opportunity arose, Sam would have preferred to hang out in his room or practice kickflips on his skateboard. He’d gotten his week’s fill of the beach the night of the party, but Vincent’s adoration of the sea meant Sam went more often than not.

 

Friday night, Sam was still too pissed at Sebastian to play pool with him and _not_ strangle him, so Sam skipped out on the saloon and hung around the house with his mom and Vincent after work despite Poppy’s and Leah’s insistent invitation to stay for supper. Saturday, Vincent and Sam spent a good chunk of the afternoon building sandcastles and watching the waves knock them down when the tide rolled in. By Sunday Sam was sunburnt and feeling the effects of the too-toasted skin on his shoulders, but he gave in when Penny and Jas showed up asking if Vincent and Sam would like to go to the beach. Penny doused the four of them in some of Poppy’s homemade sunscreen and set up an umbrella so they wouldn’t get too burnt, but by the end of the day Sam’s nose was blistered and he was miserable.

 

It didn’t help that a certain author’s residence on the shoreline had suddenly captured his interest, either. Sam kept telling himself that he hadn’t gone to the beach either of those days to try and catch a glimpse of Elliott, but there was a nagging sense of worry that the older man would get the wrong impression and think he’d brought Penny there as a date or a hookup. Sam found himself hoping that Elliott would step out, even if just for a moment, so Sam could properly explain that he wasn’t contradicting what he’d stated in their previous conversation.

 

Sam settled into bed that Sunday night, skin drawn tight across his back and shoulders. His body ached; he experienced the sensation of the sea passing through him even as he lay in bed. Sam felt crammed into his skin, as if he were a stranger stepping into an unfamiliar body and the suit wasn’t quite stretched out. He closed his eyes and saw him, then: the man he’d not caught a single glimpse of throughout the weekend. Just a flash of auburn hair, ends flicking over a shoulder, silk housecoat sliding down a pair of wiry arms and pooling around a pair of feet, long toes and slender, high arches—

 

Sam was immediately hard.

 

Underneath the attraction burned an inherent confusion. Desire bubbled at the edges of Sam’s mind, blurring out the general unease he felt at the picture he was envisioning. The object of his fantasy was tall and slender, body lithe and lean and undoubtedly _all male_. He’d been with someone physically before—not often, not recently, not much to Sam’s enjoyment, and perhaps this was why.

 

The few times Sam had been with someone, they were the wrong sex.

 

Risking a glance at his closed bedroom door, Sam brought his left hand up to his mouth and licked, tongue striping from palm to fingertips. He did it again, laving at the salty skin and imagining it was someone else’s tongue. He slipped his hand down into the waistband of his tented boxers and, fingers wrapping around the heated base of his erection, slanted his grip upwards. He wasn’t dominant with his left hand - he never touched himself with it - but using it allowed him to pretend (not without a certain degree of shame and guilt) that someone else was touching him.

 

His eyes drooped closed and he shifted his hips slightly, canting them into the unfamiliar grip. His fingers were clumsy around his cock, gripping awkwardly around the base and tugging slowly back and forth. He saw that hair again: shining bright and coppery in the sun, candlelight flickering across the shiny tendrils as it spilled across a pillowcase. Sam thought of how it would feel tangled in his fingers, envisioned himself gripping it and kissing the man it belonged to, tongue grazing across the seam of his lips as he tugged. He thought of the way the ends of that hair would tickle across his spine as soft kisses were pressed into the hollow of his neck, the space where shoulder connected with arm, down into the crook of his elbow.

 

He thought (and felt filthy for it) of the way the hair would curtain around him as its owner pounded into him from behind.

 

Sam quickened his pumps to a steady rhythm, slicking his shaft with the precome dripping from the head of his cock. He breathed quietly into the silence of his bedroom and wished desperately to be breathing into that mouth, sucking at that tongue, and bruising the lips he’d been staring at just days ago. Sam imagined Elliott doing this—fucking into his own hand right now, thinking of Sam and Sam’s mouth on his cock, on his body.

 

Seconds later, Sam came spectacularly across the inside of his boxers to that exact fantasy.

 

*

 

Poppy and Leah were standing in the flower shop when Sam got to work that Monday morning.

 

It wasn’t unusual to see them there already—Poppy and Leah had always been early risers, and they were consistently up and finished with more work in a morning than Sam felt the entire town completed in a day. Poppy was arranging a bouquet of roses while Leah sat on the counter next to her whittling away at a small piece of wood in her hand. Their voices were soft and lyrical, and their conversation drifted to a close as Sam walked in.

 

Sam still wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of love, but he knew without a doubt that if any relationship would last, it would be Poppy’s and Leah’s. Poppy had moved to Pelican Town just over a year ago, and theirs had been a whirlwind romance: Poppy arrived in the spring, romanced Leah over the duration of her first summer, and they were married before Poppy’s fall harvest.

 

Theirs was the type of relationship people aspired to find - difficult to procure and even harder to hold onto. Poppy and Leah made it look effortless and easy, like the ebb and flow of the tides. It was clear that even after close to a year of marriage, the two were still completely smitten with one another. Sam saw it in the looks passed between the women: a smile here, a soft look there, the way Leah carved little statues and left them hidden for Poppy to find and the way Poppy would tuck a flower behind Leah’s ear and press a kiss to her nose when they thought Sam wasn’t paying attention. The adoration they held for one another was teeth-rottingly sweet, and it made Sam’s insides ache with a strange mixture of happiness and jealousy.

 

Not jealousy over Poppy being with Leah or vice versa—fear masked as jealousy at the fact that Sam likely wouldn’t find that here in Pelican Town, that his outlook on love had become so jaded over the years that he wasn’t entirely sure he was capable of properly loving someone if given the chance.

 

“Good weekend, Sam?” Poppy smiled at him, the type of smile that could light up an entire continent with its sheer brilliance. She dropped her gaze down to the flowers she was working on and rearranged a bit of baby’s breath in the bouquet.

 

Sam shrugged, playing it off as though it hadn’t amounted to much of anything. “It was alright,” he said noncommittally. “I spent most of it down at the beach with Vincent. How was yours?”

 

Ignoring the question, Poppy gestured to the aloe plant on the shelf behind Sam. “Grab that, will you?”

 

Sam shot her a grin. “Really, Poppy? Even _I_ know aloe doesn’t belong in a bouquet of roses.”

Poppy rolled her eyes and bustled past Sam, standing on her tiptoes to snatch the aloe off the shelf. “It’s not for the bouquet, dork, it’s for that nasty sunburn on your nose. Knife, love?”

 

Leah passed her whittling knife over to her wife and watched as Poppy broke a leaf from the plant as close to the stem as possible and proceeded to extract the gel from the leaf. She trimmed away both ends and removed the spiny edges expertly before separating the top layer of the leaf’s skin from the gel beneath. Once she was finished, she stood before Sam, took his chin in her hand, and smeared the gel across the bridge of his nose.

Poppy smelled good, like freshly carved wood and spearmint leaves from the tea she drank in the mornings. The scent of fresh roses clung to her hands; layered above that was the clean, sharp scent of the aloe.

 

When she was finished doctoring Sam’s blistered nose, she took a step back and surveyed her own work. “There,” she said brightly, “Don’t you think that looks better, Leah?”

 

“Sure.” Leah’s mouth quirked into an amused grin as she resumed whittling away at the wood. “You bring a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘kill them with kindness,’ you know.”

 

Poppy gave another exaggerated roll of her eyes. Leaning in impishly, she said to Sam, “People think my kindness is _aggressive_. Can you believe that?”

 

Sam thought back to his first interaction with Poppy, when she’d all but shoved a pizza in his face and demanded his friendship in return. She’d done similar things with the entire town; he knew his friendship with Poppy wasn’t entirely unique in its closeness. The only difference between Poppy’s and Sam’s friendship and what she had with the other residents of Pelican Town, Sam figured, was that he worked for her.

 

Leah and Poppy had become two of his closest friends in a staggeringly short period of time, but he imagined plenty of townsfolk shared that sentiment over the charismatic farmer. “Not at all,” he quipped, eyes catching Leah’s.

 

Picking up on his teasing tone, Poppy huffed and turned back to the near-finished bouquet on the counter. “I’m not aggressive,” she grumbled under her breath. She pushed a mass of wild red curls from her eyes and jammed one last rose down into the vase.

 

Leah blew shavings from the little chicken she was carving. “Our weekend was pretty uneventful, if you don’t count the baby chicks,” she stated, veering the conversation back into safe territory.

 

At the mention of chickens, Poppy immediately brightened. “How could I have forgotten to tell you, Sam? We have new baby chicks!” Face falling, she added, “We had to cancel dinner plans with Elliott for it, but—”

 

Sam choked on his coffee at the mention of Elliott’s name. It was hot enough coming back up that he felt the liquid burn the back of his throat a second time; he swatted his hands in front of his face and blinked past the watering in his eyes as Poppy continued to speak, oblivious to Sam’s obvious distress.

“—so busy with his novel anyways that he hates taking time to eat, let alone _visit_ with us. We had to cancel because of the chicks, you know, and now he’s not answered our calls in _days_ —”

 

“I just spoke with him on Thursday,” Sam disclosed. He immediately regretted saying that aloud because remembering it and mentioning it made it look as though the interaction had affected him, and the _last_ thing he needed was for Poppy to try and meddle in his nonexistent love life.

 

Poppy’s endless chatter stopped abruptly, laser-sharp attention honed in on Sam. “Oh? And what did you two talk about?”

 

Uncomfortable, Sam studied the list of scheduled deliveries for the week. Elliott’s name was at the top of the list for the day, _Elliott W. 9:00 AM_ scribbled in Poppy’s messy script.

 

He caught himself nearly saying _Oscar Gone Wilde_ and changed tact at the last minute. “Vince and I were at the beach, and he just said hello,” Sam hedged.

 

“How strange,” Poppy murmured, tone conversational. “He normally sticks to himself.” Then, as if the idea just struck her, she asked, “I’ve actually got a big order coming up, and I’m not sure I’ll have time to hand deliver Elliott’s roses myself. You wouldn’t care to run these by Elliott’s cabin, would you?”

 

Blinking in surprise—because there were certain routes Poppy _always_ hand delivered, Elliott and Evelyn Mullner being two of them—Sam gulped and said, “You’re the boss, Poppy.”

 

Poppy clapped her hands together. “Perfect!”

 

Leah and Poppy didn’t speak again until Sam was well on his way to Elliott’s cabin.

 

As Poppy busied herself with grinding a bit of mint in her mortar and pestle for Haley’s face cream, Leah said, “I know exactly what you’re doing, you know.”

 

Poppy smiled to herself and hummed softly, thinking fondly of her two closest friends in the valley. She pecked a kiss onto her wife’s cheek and said, tone playful, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

*

 

Juggling the vase of roses in one hand, Sam raised his other hand and knocked on the front door of Elliott’s cabin. He stood there patiently, noting the busted doorbell just to the left of the frame and the open windows. The curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, sunbleached fabric flowing with the wind blowing in from the sea. Sam shuffled his feet and considered peeking in the window to see if Elliott was home. He counted to sixty and, when the door had yet to open, Sam knocked again.

 

Something crashed inside the cabin. Sam heard a low curse, a louder, “For _heaven’s_ sake,” then the sound of harried footfalls from inside. Sam had the briefest moment to prepare himself, and then the door swung open.

 

“Does anyone in this town not appreciate an honest man’s work? I need to be alone. I’m _writing_ , real—” Elliott’s sentence dropped into the void when he saw Sam, and he audibly gulped. Sam watched the up-down motion of his Adam’s apple, saw the three days’ worth of stubble patching over his jaw and throat. Instead of finishing what he was saying, Elliott simply said, “Oh.”

 

Elliott looked, in all honesty, as though he hadn’t showered since the last time Sam saw him. His face was coated in a fine spray of dark growth; his auburn hair was pulled back with a yellow ribbon. It was tied into a low ponytail that swooped over his shoulder and ended, Sam noted belatedly, roughly where Elliott’s nipples probably were. _Like a mermaid_ , Sam thought numbly. That’s why he was thinking about Elliott’s nipples; it definitely wasn’t because he was _interested_ in them or what they looked like.

 

Elliott reached a hand up  and thoughtlessly tugged at the ends of his hair, flush creeping across the hollow of his throat. He fingered the smooth locks, redness creeping from his collarbones up to his jawline. His shirt was open to reveal the lovely concave of his chest and the fairest peppering of hair there; Sam could practically count the bones in the hollows and planes of Elliott’s upper body. His sleeves were jammed up past his elbows, and Sam saw the ink smeared across his wrists and hands.

 

He’d been writing, and Sam was sure he’d never seen anything lovelier in his life.

 

When Sam failed to speak, Elliott released a soft, slightly pained noise from the back of his throat and said, “It seems as though you have a penchant for catching me in various stages of undress.”

 

Sam’s brain decided at that moment to find his voice and blurt the first thing he thought of. “I don’t mind,” Sam heard himself saying. “Shit, I mean—I’m not a pervert,” Sam added. “I just—David Bowie was hit in the eye by a lollipop during a performance once,” he finished, realizing exactly what he was doing only after the words were hanging between them.

 

Elliott blinked in surprise. “You remind me a bit of him, actually. Not David Bowie now, but… _Labyrinth_ -era Bowie. It’s the hair, which… you’ve styled differently,” he noted.

 

Sam reached up to run a hand through his shorter hair. His mother had clipped it for him over the weekend, and instead of doing the intricate style he was known for, he had left it lying flat. It aged his face a little, sharpened his cheekbones and focused the attention back onto his face and not the top of his head. He looked less like high school Sam and more like… adult Sam, he thought. Elliott seemed to notice his hair the last time they spoke on the beach, and while Sam definitely hadn’t gotten a new hairstyle in the hopes of garnering attention from the older man, the appeal was definitely there.

 

“I like it,” Elliott added. Rethinking that sentence, he stated, “Not that my opinion matters, obviously. Can—did you need something, Sam? It’s not often I get visitors, and I’m a poor host on a good day. I’m afraid I’m less than prepared for your company.”

 

Swallowing past the cottony sensation in his mouth, Sam said, “Flowers. Yoba, I mean, Poppy had roses for you, and she wanted me to deliver them. Because I work for her.” Closing his eyes in mock pain, he admitted, “I’m normally not this stilted in everyday conversation.”

 

Elliott grinned. “Good morning,” he said, a soft reminder of his own conversational confusion.

 

Something cracked in Sam’s chest, and the awkwardness leaked out of the conversation. He felt himself returning the smile, world turning a startling mixture of yellows and pinks and reds, giddiness blossoming in his chest. Sam was gripped with the sudden desire to—to kiss the man in front of him, touch him, run his fingers over the roughness of the stubble on his jaw and drink him in. Anything, really, so long as he could hear the words _good morning_ and Labyrinth _-era Bowie_ come out of Elliott’s mouth again. Sam tucked that compliment deep into his chest and filed it away for safekeeping, then he physically took a step back from Elliott and the conversation for fear that he would actually kiss him.

 

He wasn’t sure Elliott would appreciate that, and the suddenness of his desire left his lungs feeling knocked windless and left the world tilted and jarred like a funhouse mirror. Sam knew, without a doubt, that Elliott Walton could not possibly reciprocate the emotions Sam felt himself experiencing in that very moment.

 

Instead of acting on the things he was currently experiencing, Sam said, “Good morning, Elliott Walton,” and the smile cracked further across his face.

 

Maybe, just maybe, they could be friends. That thought alone brought Sam back from the high he’d ridden over the course of the past weekend, the _good mornings_ and the Adonis belt rising from the cut of Elliott’s hips, the coppered glow of his hair and his bare feet digging into the sand that afternoon at the beach. Sam had seen enough of Sebastian’s forays into romance, had watched his parents’ marriage crumble for long enough to know that approaching this with anything aside from the cautious hope that he and Elliott could be friends would be a grave mistake. Desire definitely existed, and Sam knew this with a certainty that rattled deep into his skeleton.

 

He just couldn’t act on it.

 

“Sam Underhill,” Elliott murmured, voice jerking Sam from his reverie. “Come in?”

 

Sam accepted the offer and stepped in past Elliott, roses still in hand. He hadn’t been inside the cabin since before Elliott had moved in: some things had changed, but the general layout remained roughly the same aside from the addition of a small kitchen. It was a two-room cabin; a door at the back of the building led to what Sam assumed was a bathroom. A full-sized bed was tucked into the far corner of the room and sat mussed and unmade; a pile of dishes soaked in the sink. The smell of coffee hung thick and potent in the air; wads of crumpled paper littered the floor like confetti. A piano imposed in the center of the room, swallowing the small space with its sheer size. Sam’s fingers itched to play, but instead he simply tightened his grip on the vase and rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand.

 

“Excuse the mess,” Elliott said, brushing past Sam and further into the room. He shuffled things around on the writing desk nudged against the wall, picking up various sheets of paper with lines written and crossed out haphazardly. The typewriter sat looking offended and abused on the table, keys worn to near blank slates of black; the paper poking from the top showcased what was clearly a work-in-progress.

 

“Nothing to excuse,” Sam offered, “You’ve been busy.”

 

Elliott shrugged. “Sitting around, poking at keys on a machine? I wouldn’t call that _busy_ ,” he said uneasily. “Inspiration struck over the weekend, and I’ve not been able to tear myself from the work. The roses can go here, if you’d like.”

 

Right, because Sam wasn’t here to hang out. He was here working, making a delivery to one of Poppy’s clients. Picking his way across the crumpled balls of paper on the floor, Sam placed the bouquet where Elliott indicated. They looked nice next to the typewriter, the blooms full and fresh. The spray of roses brightened the dull browns and taupes of the cabin, and while Sam had initially seen them as being tired—he was more of a sunflower guy, himself—he  understood the appeal of roses for Elliott. The flower suited him: classical and romantic, both dignified and sexy in a way Sam knew that he himself was not.

 

He realized with a growing sense of dread that he was quickly developing a crush on Elliott Walton.

 

“That okay?” Sam asked. His voice wavered, tone breathless. Without the vase in his grasp, his fingers trembled. He needed to get out of Elliott’s bubble before he was gripped with another urge to tell Elliott something as unimportant as Joan Jett’s height, weight, and blood type.

 

That’s what he did when he got nervous—told everyone anything and everything he could think of concerning his favorite musicians—and Elliott was astute enough to pick up on that fact if Sam made too great a habit of it around him.

 

Elliott’s voice, soft and too close, startled Sam. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Thank you, Sam. I’ll enjoy looking at those.”

 

“I should go.”

 

Sam took a too-quick step back and slammed directly into Elliott. _Stupid_ , he was supposed to be avoiding Elliott’s personal space, not encroaching upon it, but the backside of his body pressed into Elliott’s in a way that made every muscle in his body jerk and spasm. Sam thought, for a single moment, that he was going to stumble and do something embarrassing like knock the vase over (or worse, the typewriter), but Elliott’s hands gripped firmly at his hips and righted Sam before he could trip. The touch lingered there, long fingers squeezing slightly into the oversensitive skin, and Sam made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and pulled away.

 

Elliott’s hands grasped at the empty air, fingers clutching by his sides. His jaw hardened into a firm line, perfectly groomed brows drawn so a small wrinkle appeared between them. He was frustrated, but Sam didn’t know over what. “I should probably get back to work as well,” he admitted. “Thank you for delivering my flowers.”

 

Elliott had been working before Sam got here, of course. Sam was bothering him; before Sam barged in, Elliott had been writing and was probably getting more work completed than he felt he had in ages. Sam distinctly remembered the comment Elliott had made about not being an author because he had yet to complete a novel, and guilt pitted in Sam’s gut. He needed to leave.

 

Sam nodded, chin ducking up and down like a bobble head. “Yeah, of course. I—I probably won’t see you, I guess, since you don’t get out much, but…”

 

He gave Elliott a wide berth this time, avoiding touching him again at all costs. Sam was awkward enough, the contrast stark when in context with Elliott’s own suave exterior and mannerisms. Touching Elliott again would likely result in Sam waddling out of the cabin with his pants tented between his legs, which was something he would very much like to avoid today (and, ideally, at all costs).

 

Pausing at the door, Sam glanced back at the writer. Elliott regarded him impassively, face stricken with the same pained expression he’d been exhibiting since Sam had bumped into him. Sam jerked his chin at Elliott. “Later, dude,” he mumbled before ducking out of the cabin and scurrying away as quickly as he could.

 

His body burned, his mind spun, and again he was assaulted with the sensation of freefalling without a parachute to guarantee any sort of soft landing.

 

Sam didn’t look back at the cabin once as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone following along so far! Drop a comment, kudos, or message us—we love making new friends!


	4. Chapter 4

Elliott knew what infatuation felt like, which meant that he recognized exactly what was happening as soon as Sam stepped out of his cabin, leaving the roses behind like some sort of old-fashioned token of affection. Which they weren’t. Clearly. Elliott was hardly childish enough to imagine that there was any sort of meaning behind this most recent visit. He had been the one to order the flowers, after all, and Sam could hardly help where he was told to make his deliveries. Elliott wondered offhandedly why Sam was the one to bring him flowers today when normally Poppy took personal pride in walking his delivery over to his cabin herself.

 

Staring at the roses on his writing desk, Elliott wondered how he had let this happen. He had been living in the valley for two years and had been able to avoid any sort of romantic attachment to anyone in town. So how had Sam been able to crash into his orbit and push himself into the forefront of Elliott’s thoughts? And not just today. He had scarcely been able to stop thinking about him since that afternoon on the beach when Sam had stood in front of him, laughing and smiling like some sort of dazzling vision. He looked at his fingertips and felt that the heat of Sam’s skin where Elliott had caught him still burned there. It had felt so perversely _right_ to hold him like that.

 

Elliott had always thought of his cabin as an ideal size—not so small that he felt trapped but spacious enough that he was always comfortable. Yet it had seemed that with Sam here, in his reach, the walls closed in and pushed them closer together. Elliott had wanted to give Sam his space, to remain aloof and not betray the growing lust that he felt as he regarded the younger man, but it had been as if the two of them were continually drawn together by some sort of innate magnetic pull. Elliott had wanted to be near him so that he could memorize all the aspects of him: his smell, the details of his face, the timbre of his voice. He hoped desperately that Sam hadn’t noticed, or that he hadn’t been offended if he did.

 

Elliott was a passionate man and always had been, even outside of the context of his job description. When he fell for people he fell deeply, allowing them to consume all of his time and thoughts. It was a useful quality for him to have as a writer in that he was never wanting for inspiration and life experiences to draw from, but it was also quite detrimental to his work as he often found himself unable to focus on anything outside of his partner. That in itself had been part of the driving force behind his decision to move to the valley. He had specifically chosen this town because his cabin would be removed from everyone else and the town population was so small. Neither he nor his novel could handle the fallout from the kind of torrid love affair that plagued his personal life back home, and so he had lived these past two years in the self-imposed exile that he had explicitly sought out. He had even convinced himself that he was happier this way.

 

But then Sam had happened. Beautiful, exuberant, blessedly oblivious Sam. He had knocked something loose in Elliott on that early morning days ago, and had only gone on to solidify Elliott’s fall that same afternoon.  And now Elliott found himself tossed about in the intensity of his own desire, helpless to the hunger of his own body and the pull of his thoughts. Elliott only wished that he could pinpoint exactly what it was about Sam that had managed to shake him to his core in this way.

 

It couldn’t be merely his attractiveness. There were plenty of beautiful people in Pelican Town, and yet Elliott had held firm in his indifference without any trouble. It wasn’t even that Sam was a new acquaintance; he had been here longer than Elliott. Elliott had seen him around town on occasion for two years without ever being affected. And yet here he was, heart threatening to beat out of his chest at the mere thought of being able to hold him again. This question had plagued Elliott all week: Why him, and why now? And yet, after days of self-reflection, Elliott had no satisfactory answer for himself.

 

Elliott knew that, personal feelings aside, he could never bring himself to make his wishes known. Sam was vibrant and young and had little in common with Elliott’s jaded and unreliable way of life. On top of that, it would be wishful thinking to even hope that Sam could be interested in another man. Elliott had always been open about his attraction to men as well as women, but he also knew very well that this was not an orientation all men shared.

 

Elliott couldn’t think of anyone in town that Sam had openly been with over the past two years from what little he knew of him, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been anyone. There was town gossip that he and Penny were involved, and it was true that Elliott had seen them together on the beach recently. Elliott could certainly see the attraction. Penny was kind and bright and would do well with someone like Sam. She and Elliott had struck up a sincere friendship since he’d moved into the valley, mostly by virtue of them both treating the town’s library as a second home. He had even turned to her on occasion to read through sections of his manuscript to check his grammar. If Sam was to be with anyone, Elliott thought, it _should_ be Penny. Better for a young man like that to be with a woman who read books than a charmless recluse who failed at writing them.

 

Logic aside, Elliott knew that his infatuation was not one that would die down quickly. He had thought of little other than Sam for days, and having him in his home had only made things worse. But there was good that could come from that. As soon as he returned to his cabin following their conversation on the beach, Elliott was consumed by a level of inspiration for his novel that he hadn’t felt in months.

 

Suddenly all the words he had grasped for so helplessly were standing clearly at the forefront of his mind, the characters who had previously seemed so dull and lifeless now springing forth with spirit and flavor. How sweet, Elliott thought, to have an object of affection after so many years of solitude, unreturned though those affections may be. And sweeter still to be able to take those feelings and channel them into something good—something tangible.

 

Elliott would never be with Sam. And yet through him, Elliott could find fulfillment as a writer again. That would have to be enough.

 

*

 

The sun was just beginning to set over the horizon when Elliott arrived on Poppy’s farm. As he closed the gate behind him and made his way up the porch steps to her front door, he could just make out the sound of light laughter and soft music wafting out from the open living room window. The curtains had been drawn back to let the light in during the day. Peering in, Elliot could clearly see that his two hosts had gotten distracted while waiting for him to arrive.

 

Poppy was straddling Leah, who was lying on her back on the main couch with her arms wrapped around her wife. The two were peppering each other with kisses and letting their hands roam up and down each other’s bodies aimlessly. Poppy’s face was entirely shrouded by her mass of curls. Elliott rolled his eyes good-naturedly before stepping back to the door. He had never met a couple who were more unable to keep their hands off each other than Poppy and Leah. If he didn’t love them both so much, he would have found it truly nauseating.

 

Elliott gave the front door three loud knocks and stifled a laugh as he heard a sharp gasp and the sound of Leah saying, “I _told_ you we didn’t have enough time,” with mock exasperation.

 

After a few seconds, the door swung open and Poppy was standing in front of him, trademark smile brimming with fondness.

 

“Elliott!” she cooed, throwing her arms out wide. She was a over a foot shorter than he was, and he had to bend over to properly hug her.

 

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, more out of convention than actual concern that she would be frustrated with him for arriving early.

 

“Nothing that I can’t finish later,” she said with a wink, and then she was ushering him inside and closing the door behind him.

 

Leah made her way towards them and greeted Elliott while Poppy took his coat and hung it on the rack by the door.

 

“We’re glad you could come out,” Leah said sweetly, “but if you ignore Poppy for a whole week again, I’m going to march to your cabin and drag you here myself. It’s all she would talk about.”

 

“It’s not _all_ I talked about,” Poppy protested.

 

“Honey, you told every single one of our customers this week that Elliott wasn’t answering your phone calls.”

 

“Well sure,” she conceded, “but I talked about other stuff, too.”

 

“I’m truly sorry for any offense I might have caused,” Elliott cut in.  “I found myself quite busy this week. Unexpectedly so.”

 

“Well you’re here now,” Leah offered. She motioned towards the wine bottle that Elliott had brought with him. “Is that for us?”

 

“It is.” He held it out towards her. “I am in a rather celebratory mood tonight.”

 

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

 

Elliott smiled despite himself, unable to hold in his good news.

 

“My novel. It’s done. As of this morning.”

 

Poppy’s scream of joy was all the reaction Elliott had been hoping for. She threw herself at him with open arms, squeezing tight and trying her best to shake him off balance.

 

“Oh Yoba, that’s amazing news! Do you have it with you? Can we read it? I’m gonna cry!”

 

“That’s fantastic, Elliott,” Leah said, hands clasped together. “Let me get that wine unscrewed and we can start celebrating for real.” She turned towards the kitchen to look for the wine opener.

 

“Nuh-uh,” Poppy cut in, letting Elliott go and grabbing the wine from his hands. “First thing’s first. Elliott, you look really bad.”

 

“Poppy!” Leah exclaimed, whirling around. Her face looked shocked, but her voice was amused.

 

“I didn’t realize I needed to be formally dressed tonight,” Elliott quipped.

 

“Your clothes are fine, Elliott,” Poppy said, face completely serious. “Well, they’re actually really wrinkled, but that’s not the point. It’s your face and hair that need help. You look exhausted and like you haven’t showered in days. How much sleep did you get last night?”

 

Elliott fidgeted at that. It was true that he had let his personal care fall largely to the wayside this past week. He had simply been so caught up in the frenzy of his writing that he hadn’t allowed himself the time to really look after himself. Poppy sighed deeply and put her hands on his shoulders, which required her to strain on her tiptoes.

 

“Here’s what’s about to happen, Elliott,” she said calmly. “Leah’s going to pour you a glass of wine, I’m going to go draw a bath, and then you are going to soak in that bath and sip that wine before this evening proceeds any further.”

 

“What about dinner?” he asked meekly.

 

“Dinner is the least of my worries. I was going to suggest we all go out to eat at Gus’ anyway. A celebration for you finishing your novel deserves better food than I can scrape together over here. You know I’m not much of a chef anyway.”

 

“I don’t think this is—”

 

“Thank you for your input, my love, but this is not really a debate. Leah, can you pour him that wine?”

 

“You’re the boss, babe,” Leah sing-songed before winking at Elliott. Poppy ran off without any further input from either of them.

 

*

 

The shower in Elliott’s cabin was dismal. It had a constantly leaking showerhead and the water pressure was wholly unreliable. The heat, too, left much to be desired. Showers either ran oppressively hot or unbearably cold with only about thirty seconds of manageable temperature in between. Elliott had long since lost the water stopper that would have allowed him to take a bath at all. And all of this together meant that Elliott had not had a relaxing bath in years.

 

Until this evening, at least.

 

When Poppy announced that she would “draw a bath” Elliott assumed, like most people would have, that she was simply going to turn on the water and let him know when it was ready. But Elliott had drastically underestimated Poppy’s unflinching need to be a gracious host. Running in a line down the sink’s countertop were candles that she had made herself and infused with the scent of flowers she had grown on the farm. She had turned off the overhead light so that the dim flames of the candles lit the room softly, casting flickering shadows up the walls. Together they filled the room with a heady, sweet fragrance.

 

There was a small wooden stand by the side of the bathtub, and on it she had placed his glass of wine and a small plate of bread and cheese. When renovating the bathroom a few months ago she had apparently paid to have a sound system installed somewhere in the ceiling, as she was running a sarabande by one of Elliott’s favorite composers through it.

 

On the edge of the bath she had placed everything Elliott might need for his grooming: a brush, scissors, a razor, some form of natural face wash and moisturizer, body wash, and a bevy of hair products. It seemed that she had been serious when she told him that she wanted him to take his time.

 

A soft knock on the bathroom door grabbed his attention, and he called for whoever it was to come in after adjusting the towel around his waist to make sure that it was on tight. Leah poked her head in and smiled.

 

“Do you have everything you need?”

 

“More than I need, I should say.”

 

Leah chuckled and held out a soft green bathrobe for him. “We’re washing your clothes right now, so you can wear this until they’re dry.”

 

“Thank you, Leah. And please thank Poppy as well. This is lovely.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a dismissing wave of her hand. “Poppy could have been more tactful about it, but she was right. You looked gross.”

 

“Yes. Thank you,” he said primly.

 

Leah laughed before turning and closing the door behind her. After a moment, she opened it again and peeked back inside.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot. Poppy and I agree that you should keep the stubble. It looks good.”

 

“I’ll consider it,” Elliott said, a grin curving across his face. Leah smiled back and then left.

 

Humming along with the orchestra, Elliott locked the door and stripped off his towel. Staring into the mirror, he regarded himself in the low light. He did indeed look haggard. Having stayed inside all week and only electing to walk the beach at night, Elliott’s skin had paled. The dark circles underneath his eyes weren’t going to go away from one bath, but he hoped the steam and whatever was in Poppy’s homemade face wash would do something to brighten his complexion. The most tragic aspect of his appearance, however, was of course his hair. Without any proper care it had grown matted and greasy, and Elliott winced internally at the prospect of combing out all of his tangles. He _had_ grown stubble, although he agreed with Poppy and Leah that it looked better than expected. It wasn’t thick yet, but it had grown in evenly and would probably look quite nice if he let it grow out.

 

Despite his unkempt appearance, however, Elliott still felt a small swelling of his ego when he looked at his body. It was still lean, but the sinewy muscles running along his arms and legs were more apparent and his stomach was athletically toned. His morning yoga sessions with Leah the past few months had been paying off. Recently he had even acquired a pair of weights. Not that he was concerned about looking attractive to anybody in particular.

 

As Poppy’s shower was separate from her bath, Elliott ran it for a few moments and got in gingerly, hoping to rid himself of any particularly distinct dirt that might have built up. That alone felt amazing, and Elliott realized just how right Poppy had been. The tension in his shoulders and back had built up terribly throughout the week, and the feel of the water hitting him in all the right spots caused him to release a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

 

The bath was even better. The water was wonderfully hot, and Elliott slid into it like a ghost. He didn’t know why Poppy, who was comically short, needed such a large bathtub, but he was hardly going to complain. It was long and wide enough that Elliott could stretch out his legs and submerge himself in the water without feeling cramped. Upon coming up for air, Elliott sniffed his skin and realized that Poppy must have mixed in some scented oils into the bath water as well. Resting his head against the back of the tub, Elliott breathed out deeply and felt his stresses roll off.

 

And then, while surrounded by warmth and darkness and ruminating on how content he felt, Sam’s face came to Elliott’s mind. It wasn’t an unwelcome thought. He hadn’t seen the younger man since he had dropped off Elliott’s roses a week ago, and since that encounter Elliott had thought of him every day. Mostly while he was writing. Sam had been rewritten into all the corners of Elliott’s book. Not literally, of course, but Elliott knew fully well that he would not have been able to write what he needed to without him. He realized now that the book had suffered so greatly because he had not allowed himself to be excited about romance in years. As a result, the lovers of his book felt awkward and unrealistic, and no true feelings of passion ran underneath their declarations of love. But then Elliott had been given the ultimate gift: the return of his fire.

 

Not that he loved Sam, obviously. Elliott didn’t want to get too ahead of himself. He didn’t know exactly what was going on regarding his feelings for the man; all he knew was that he wanted Sam. Desperately. He wanted to chase that smile for as long as he possibly could.

 

Sinking deeper into the water, Elliott thought back to the last time they had seen each other. Sam’s hair had been shorter and brushed back, similar to how it had looked that previous afternoon on the beach. Elliott had found it exceedingly handsome, and had been so taken aback that he had stuttered out some embarrassing comparison of Sam to David Bowie. Sam’s nose had been a bright red, presumably from the sun, and Elliott had almost offered him some aloe that he had received from Poppy before deciding against it. Other than that, though, Sam’s skin had developed a golden tan following his days on the beach, and Elliott had noticed a light outcropping of freckles along his face.

 

Elliott thought of the heat that had radiated off of Sam’s body when they bumped into each other and of how perfect it had felt to have their bodies pressed together, even as brief as the moment was. How long had it been since Elliott had touched someone and been touched in return? Far too long.

  


*

  


Elliott did not frequent the saloon often, but tonight it felt resplendent to be seated at the bar flanked by his two dearest friends. The wine he had finished off at the farm still swam around his head deliciously, and he felt high on his own successes. He had obviously known today that his book was finished, but telling Poppy and Leah out loud had solidified it. Now they were out and celebrating, and Elliott could scarcely believe that after all these years his struggle with his own inadequacy was finally over. He realized now that he didn’t care if the book failed spectacularly, because at least he had written a book. He had done what he told everyone he would do, and no one could take that fact away from him.

 

Leah laughed as Poppy clambered over the bar on her stomach to grab at Emily’s hand. She whipped around, giggling furiously.

 

“Emily, my bluebell! You look so lovely tonight!” Poppy called out, her legs flying up in the air as she struggled to not topple over headfirst.

 

“And you look like you’ve already had a few drinks,” Emily snickered. Across the bar Gus was regarding them all with a patient grin.

 

“I may have had a few,” Poppy muttered, bringing Emily’s hand up to her mouth in a soft kiss. “But I think we all need at least three more. Each!”

 

“Maybe we’ll start with one and take it from there, Pop,” Emily said, looking to Leah for assistance. She complied, grabbing Poppy by her waist and pulling her back to her barstool.

 

“Two beers for them and a whiskey for me, please,” Elliott offered, more than ready to keep drinking.

 

Emily flitted away and came back in a few moments with their drinks. She regarded the three of them cheerily.

 

“I almost never see you come around here, Elliott,” she said conversationally. “Any special occasion?”

 

“Yes, actually,” he demurred. “I wrote a book.”

 

Emily looked at him blankly for a moment before her face lit up. “Wait, you mean _your_ book?”

 

Poppy and Leah both nodded, smiling like proud mothers. Emily squealed gleefully and clapped her hands together.

 

“Elliott, that’s amazing! Congratulations! The rest of your drinks tonight are on me, then.”

 

“Emily, that’s far too kind, I couldn’t possibly-”

 

“I insist,” she cut in. “After all, it’s not everyday you write a book.”

 

He supposed that much was true.

 

The next couple of drinks went down far smoother than Elliott had expected. The drinks that Gus served weren’t what one might consider to be top shelf, but Elliott had knocked back more than enough whiskey to start feeling something. He felt good. In fact, as the night went on and more and more people arrived at the saloon,  Elliott only continued to feel better. Poppy had made it her mission for the night to tell everyone just why they were celebrating, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest swell with pride a little every time.

 

By this point in the evening, Leah and Poppy were far too drunk to keep their hands to themselves. Leah was perched on Poppy’s lap, and their mouths were locked onto each other’s. It made Elliott want some space. It made him want someone to do that with, too. It made him want Sam.

 

Elliott got off of his stool, wobbling royally, and headed towards the bathroom, exerting all of his effort to ensure that he walked in a straight line. The signs indicated that it was somewhere past the arcade room, which was an area of the bar that Elliott was yet to see. He turned the corner… and saw Sam.

 

He was bending over the saloon’s pool table, smiling and lining up a shot. Elliott wanted him. He turned and looked back at Elliott, eyes growing wide in surprise and mouth falling open slightly. Elliott wanted him. His skin was tanned and his face was flushed. Elliott wanted him.

 

The two just gaped at each other for a moment, neither one willing to break the stillness. Normally this would be the time when Elliott would back off, but not tonight. Not when Elliott had boldness and booze on his side. Elliott walked over to Sam, whose eyes had never left his face, and stopped a few inches away from him. He noticed vaguely that Sam wasn't alone and he was probably being rude, but he didn't care.

 

“I'd like to buy you a drink, Sam,” Elliott said, his voice low and hushed.

 

Sam simply stared at Elliott for a beat before nodding his head. “Okay.”

 

Elliott looked at his lips hungrily before jerking his head toward the direction of the bar, indicating for Sam to follow, which he did.

 

“Sam, what the hell?” Sam’s companion, Sebastian, watched them go with his hands in the air confusedly.

 

Sam turned around quickly and shrugged. “You were gonna win anyway, dude. I'm just saving you the trouble.”

 

And then he was jogging to catch up to Elliott, eyes shining.

 

Elliott led Sam back to the the front room and picked two seats at the end of the bar, giving a wide berth to the other patrons. He waved at Poppy and Leah, who waved back but but didn’t come over, instead electing to carry on a private conversation in low voices.

 

“What would you like?” he asked, settling into his seat and turning to Sam.

 

“I don’t really know,” he said, looking more nervous now that it was just the two of them.  

 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Elliott replied with a sly smile.

 

Elliott thought that he saw Sam blush at that, but he wasn’t sure. Either way, Elliott was aware that they were sitting incredibly close to one another. Sam’s thigh was pressed against Elliott’s, and when Elliott reached his arm over to hook it around the back of Sam’s chair, his fingers brushed against Sam’s back ever so slightly.

 

“I guess a beer sounds nice,” Sam said, visibly relaxing a little. “It seems like you’ve already had a couple.”

 

“And what makes you say that?”

 

“I can smell it on your breath, for starters.”

 

Sam’s smile was mischievous, nose crinkling for emphasis. Languidly, Elliott leaned into him, faces no more than a few inches apart. Sam looked surprised but didn’t move back.

 

“Is it quite terrible?” Elliott asked, tilting his head up slightly before blowing air gently into Sam’s face.

Sam stared at Elliott as if he had just been slapped across the face. “No,” he stuttered out. “It's, uh, it’s fine.”

 

“Thank goodness.” Elliott held his face near Sam's for just a second longer before pulling away.

 

He flagged down Emily and ordered Sam’s beer, as well as another whiskey for himself. She brought the drinks back quickly, but her eyes lingered on the two of them and she hung back for a moment, no doubt curious as to what the odd pair could possibly be talking about.

 

“How’s the band coming along, Sammy?” she asked, her voice easily carrying over the clamor of the saloon. Sam immediately perked up at her question.

 

“Really well! I went up to Ligo with Sam and Abi a couple of weeks ago to officially record our second  EP, and I’m almost done mixing the tracks. I spent, like, five hours yesterday just tweaking the panning on our opener, but I’m really happy with everything so far.”

 

“That’s awesome,” Emily responded. “I’ve had your live show marked on my calendar for a month. It’s been so long since I went to a concert.”

 

“Yeah, we’re pretty psyched,” Sam beamed. Elliott regarded his face with interest. This was clearly a subject that brought him a lot of joy.

 

Emily’s attention was drawn away by Clint waving at the end of the bar, looking for a refill on his mug.  “Duty calls! Let me know if you guys need anything else,” she chirped before walking off.

 

Once it was just the two of them again, Elliott held his glass out towards Sam. “Cheers,” he toasted with a wink.

 

“Cheers,” Sam said breathlessly before clinking their glasses and knocking back a large gulp of his beer. Elliott sipped at his whiskey.

 

“So,” he said softly, “you’re a musician. I didn’t know.”

 

Sam smiled back at him bashfully, pride mixing with the desire to seem humble. “Well, I’m no David Bowie or anything. But yeah, the band’s pretty fun.”

 

“What do you play?”

 

“I can play guitar and piano, but I do mostly vocals now that Abi’s boyfriend plays with us. And I do the sound design myself, too. But don’t be too impressed—I’m a total amateur.”

 

“That takes a great amount of talent, Sam. You shouldn’t put yourself down,” Elliott said seriously.

 

Sam graced him with a truly pretty smile that conveyed genuine gratitude. “I could, uh - play for you. Sometime. I saw the piano in your cabin.”

 

“I would like that,” Elliot replied sincerely. “It might be a bad idea, though.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I have quite a… weakness for artists,” Elliott said, his voice taking on a matter-of-fact affectation.  “All the great loves of my life have been either musicians, actors, or writers. I might develop quite a crush.”

 

Sam just blinked back at him before looking away hurriedly. Elliott wondered if Sam was aware that he had a penchant for licking his lips when he was looking for something to say.

 

“I think I’d be willing to risk it,” he said finally.

 

“Well in that case,” Elliott hummed, “I would love to hear you play.”

 

Sam swallowed more of his beer in lieu of a response, and Elliott followed suit. The whiskey settled warmly at the bottom of his stomach and set his head swimming even more. He noted that Sam was watching Poppy and Leah, who were once again wrapped around each other.

 

“They’re quite a pair, aren’t they?” Elliott’s voice had grown huskier with the alcohol, and his words came out slower than he would have liked.

 

“They really are,” Sam said, his finger absentmindedly skimming along the lip of his glass.

 

Elliott looked away from the couple to peer at Sam’s face. His skin and hair looked golden underneath the dim cast of the barlights hanging overhead. He was taking another sip of beer with a wry grin playing at the edge of his mouth. Elliott wanted to taste that mouth.

 

“When’s the last time that you were kissed like that, Sam?”

 

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but Sam practically spit out his drink before whipping around to face him. He was blushing wildly.

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“I was just curious,” Elliott said with a pause, holding eye contact.

 

“I - I don’t know,” Sam sputtered out, squirming in his chair. “Maybe never, I guess.”

 

“Well, _that’s_ a tragedy. Someone like you should never go a day without being kissed.”

 

“Someone like me? What does that mean?”

 

Elliott had a habit of growing increasingly more brazen the more he drank, and if he had more presence of mind he would have stopped himself before it got this far. Still, he had enough lingering sense to tell himself that staying here any longer was probably a poor idea. He was currently at the point of drunkenness that tended to earn him either a lover in his bed or a slap to the face. He didn’t want to rile Sam to the point of anger, and he was under no illusions that the man would be interested in going home with him.

 

He slammed back the last of his drink and looked at Sam apologetically.

 

“Excuse me, won’t you? It’s been lovely to see you, Sam, but I really should be getting home. You were - very kind. To humor me.”

 

Sam started to protest, but Elliott pushed out of his chair and headed towards the door. Or he attempted to, anyway. Upon standing up, he felt overcome with dizziness and his steps faltered. For a moment he feared that he might topple backwards, but then Sam’s hands were on his back.

 

“Whoa, are you good?!”

 

“Fine. Shit, I’m - I’m fine. I can go.”

 

Elliott would have thought that his stumbling would have gone largely unnoticed. He was in a bar, after all. But looking around heavily, he could see that almost all of the patrons in the saloon were watching him, faces tinged with both concern and amusement. Including Poppy, who was on her feet in seconds.

 

“Elliott, sweetie, are you okay?”

 

Elliott nodded dumbly, too worried that whatever he said out loud would betray just how drunk he was.

 

“We probably should have made sure he had dinner before we all drank a bottle of wine and let him drink all that whiskey,” Leah reasoned.

 

“I knew I was forgetting something,” Poppy groaned. She had her hands on either side of Elliott’s arms and rubbed up and down reassuringly. “Don’t worry, hon, we’re getting you home.”

 

Leah craned her neck back towards the bar and waved.  “Gus, can he have that stir fry to go?”

 

“Good idea,” Poppy said with a smile. “But anyway, I don’t think that Elliott should be walking home alone. Don’t you agree, honey?”

 

“I do. We don’t want him falling into the ocean. We can walk you back, Elliott.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Poppy said pleasantly. “Sam can walk him back. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

 

*

Elliott leaned on Sam the whole walk back, trying his best not to stumble and spill onto the ground. He had his right arm wrapped around Sam’s shoulder to hold himself up, and Sam’s left arm was snaked around Elliott’s waist for support. The to-go bag of stir fry was dangling from his free hand.

 

“I am - so sorry, Sam. This is… embarrassing,” Elliott murmured as they crossed the bridge to the beach. “I feel like such an asshole.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Elliott,” Sam said, and although his head was downturned, Elliott could hear the thinly veiled laughter in his voice. He was likely entertained by Elliott’s swearing, which always ended up happening when he got too drunk. One more thing to feel self-conscious about later.  “Let’s just get you home.”

 

“You’re quite the gentleman.”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

 

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Elliott willing himself to remember this feeling of having a beautiful man’s arm wrapped around him. Who knew when it would happen again. If ever. Stepping onto the beach, he was unbearably sad to see his cabin. It meant that in no time at all he would be alone again.

 

When they got to his front door Elliott pulled himself away from Sam’s grip.

 

“I can take it from here,” he whispered.

 

“Are you—I mean, are you sure? I can go inside if you want. To, you know, help you get situated.”

 

“I’m quite able to pass out on my own. Thank you.”

 

“Well... okay,” Sam said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, as if now he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Don’t mention it.”

 

Elliott stood there for a while with his back against the wooden door and taking in the sight of Sam under the moonlight. He began to laugh.

 

“What’s so funny?” Sam asked, face screwed up in confusion.

 

“It’s nothing,” Elliott said, smile dropping from his face. With all the coordination he could muster, he pushed himself forward ever so slightly and crossed the gap between the two of them, arms wrapping around Sam and gripping tight. He brought his mouth down so that it was just grazing Sam’s ear. “I’m simply laughing at myself,” he whispered. “It hadn’t occurred to me that someone I find so attractive sober would look even better once I’m drunk.”

Sam said nothing in response. Not that Elliott was expecting him to. With that, he let him go and opened his door with a clumsily shaking hand. Once inside he took one last look at Sam, standing dazed with his arms open as if Elliott was still holding him.

 

“Goodnight, Sam.”

 

He closed the door and turned the lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge and sincere thank you to everyone who has been encouraging and kind in the comments. We really appreciate them beyond belief! This chapter was sort of a behemoth to write so I'm very psyched to have it out here for you guys!


	5. Chapter 5

Sam waited in front of the cabin until he heard the deadbolt click firmly into place. He thought of Elliott stumbling around inside, stripping off his clothing and spilling onto the bed in a pile of whiskey-warmed arms and legs. Sam found himself wishing desperately to be on the other side of that door if only to ensure Elliott made it into bed safely, tucked in and propped on his side in case he got sick during the night. He pressed a hand to the weather-beaten face of the front door, felt the warmth from Elliott’s body that had soaked into the wood, and allowed himself to relive the sensation of Elliott’s body pressed against his.

 

Sam had spent so long taking care of others—be it his mother, Vincent, or even Sebastian’s hookups—that his first instinct was to take care of Elliott. But Elliott was a man, he reminded himself firmly. He could take care of himself. Sam was sure Elliott had been drunk at the saloon before and had not only gotten home alone perfectly fine but had taken care of himself hungover as well.

 

Removing his hand from the door, Sam reached up and traced his index finger carefully along the line of his ear. He still felt Elliott’s mouth there, smelled the hot-sweet scent of whiskey on his breath, and trembled.

 

_Someone like you should never go a day without being kissed._

 

“If you really thought so,” Sam whispered, finding himself speaking to Elliott’s front door for the second time in a week’s period, “then you should have taken it upon yourself to see that it was done.”

 

Sam thought futilely of the last time he had been kissed—he’d never been properly kissed, not really, but he _had_ been kissed. The kissing had led to more, something he wasn’t entirely sure he’d wanted. Her name was Jamie, and when they finished in the back of the van Sam and his friends used to get to all their shows, he had asked, “Can I call you?”

 

Jamie had smiled at Sam as she wriggled back into her jeans, a mixture of pity and amusement, and said, “I don’t think so, Scott.”

 

Sam had experienced a sinking feeling then, something not unlike heartbreak clenching in his gut. He had said, “Oh. Right,” and watched as she gave him an awkward wave and slid out of the backseat and away from his life. He didn't know her, which had been his first mistake, he thought then. Sam knew now that sleeping with Elliott and watching the older man walk away afterwards would hurt a hell of a lot more than a random stranger walking away ever could.

 

He wanted Elliott all the more for it.

 

Balling his hand into a fist and taking the plunge, Sam raised his hand back to the door and knocked.

 

Sam was slammed with a sudden sense of déjà vu. He had just been here a few days ago, roses in hand. It was jarring to think that, after spending two years never having so much as glancing in the direction of the cabin, Sam was now knocking on the door and actively seeking entry for the second time in a week.

 

There was a crash, a mumbled expletive, and then the sound of the deadbolt sliding back from the lock. Elliott opened the door, cheeks flushed to a rosy pink and his hair fluffed. The surprise was evident in his slurred tone. “Sam? You’re back?”

 

“I never actually left your doorstep,” Sam admitted.

 

Elliott stepped back and ushered Sam in. He pressed the door shut and locked it once more, effectively trapping Sam inside with him. “Since you’re here…” He turned back to Sam and gestured to the buttons on his shirt. “You remember that I was slightly inebriated earlier in the evening, correct?”

 

At that, Sam grinned. “Depends on your definition of ‘slightly’ and ‘earlier,’ considering you’re still really drunk.”

 

“ _Well_ ,” Elliott said, electing to increase his volume rather than listen to Sam’s commentary, “the effects of the alcohol I consumed throughout the evening have yet to wear off. There are three buttons for each slot when I know for a fact there had previously been only one, and they keep moving around.”

 

Sam raised his eyebrows. “And what do you want me to do with that information?”

 

Elliott closed his eyes in embarrassment. “Would you care to help me unbutton my shirt?”

 

Sam was getting hard again. This was not an alternate reality or even a wet dream, Sam decided as he thought desperately of anything he could to keep his erection at bay. He had died and woken in one of the deepest torture chambers of hell.

 

Feeling like a total pervert, Sam choked, “Of course I will.”

 

The cabin had been picked up since his last visit: the wads of paper had been picked up and properly disposed of, and the writing desk had been neatly organized. A manuscript sat proudly just in front of the typewriter, hot off the press and ready for publication.

 

Elliott had finished his novel.

 

Sam had heard everyone in the saloon talking about it. How could they not be discussing it, though? Poppy and Leah had all but stood on the bar and announced it for the world to hear: Elliott Walton had completed his first full-length novel. After two years of unsuccessful writing in the valley, he was officially an (almost) published author. Sam felt caught between being proud of Elliott for finishing the novel and jealous for not hearing the news firsthand. He felt petty and small for wishing Elliott had told him. An unrequited crush did not earn him the right to hear Elliott’s good news from the man himself.

 

Elliott dropped onto the bed and patted the empty space beside him; Sam sat hesitantly and rested his hands on his knees. Fumbling with the shirt, Elliott admitted, “I’m sorry to bother you with this, Sam. I wouldn’t have asked if I could stand to sleep in my shirt. It gets really fucking hot in here at night, and I’d rather not sweat through my clean sheets.”

 

Sam’s cheeks burned. “Elliott,” he chided, “you need to stop doing that.” He reached forward and unbuttoned the topmost button at the hollow of Elliott’s throat.

 

Elliott reached a hand up to grab Sam’s arm. “Stop doing what?” he asked.

 

Sam undid the second button, then went down for the third. “Saying the word ‘fuck.’”

 

Elliott huffed and dropped his arms dramatically to the bed. “Why do you want me to stop saying fuck?”

 

Sam was on the fifth button now, only two more to go. “I’ll tell why if you promise you’ll quit saying it. Up,” he added, gesturing for Elliott to raise his arms.

 

Elliott complied and allowed Sam to work the shirt free from his shoulders and arms. As Sam was folding the shirt, he said, “I won’t say it again if you tell me why you don’t want me to.”

 

Sam reached forward and tucked a piece of hair behind Elliott’s ear. Leaning in close, he whispered, “It’s because I like when you say it.”

 

Without missing a beat, Elliott grinned impishly and said, “I want you to take my _fucking_ pants off, Sam.”

 

Truthfully, Sam probably should have seen that one coming. He stood from the bed and took Elliott’s shoes off one at a time, then tugged the socks from his feet. He scraped the blunt edge of his thumbnail against the arch of Elliott’s foot; the older man let out a sharp peal of laughter and tried to wriggle from Sam’s grip.

 

Sam did it again, basking in the sound of Elliott’s laughter, and asked, “Ticklish, are we?”

 

Elliott stilled and stared up at Sam. His hair was mussed, cheeks pinked up, lips full and ripe for kissing. Sam allowed his gaze to drift down, past the hollow at the base of his throat and the sharp ridges of his collarbones. Sam admired the planes of Elliott’s body for a few seconds: the lovely pink peaks of his nipples, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the inguinal crease cutting from the line of his slim hips and down past the waistband of his pants.

 

Elliott looking at Sam like this was not helping the fact that Sam was sporting a rather uncomfortable semi.

 

Sam dropped Elliott’s feet, reached forward, and unfastened the snap on his pants. He pulled the zipper down, knuckles brushing against the growing bulge in Elliott’s boxer briefs, then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of the pants and tugged them down. Elliott canted his hips upwards so Sam could work the pants down past his thighs and around his knees; once they were off, Sam folded the pants and placed them on top of the shirt.

 

Sam chided himself for the somersaulting of his stomach at the notion that Elliott Walton could possibly want him. He was drunk, and Sam was undressing him—that’s all it was. Sam was young and inexperienced, and Elliott could have anyone in town he wanted. He very well may have.

 

“All good?” Sam asked, voice shaky.

 

Elliott regarded Sam for a few seconds before saying, “I wasn’t serious about you taking off my pants, you know. I was going to try and preserve your modesty.”

 

Right, because the boxer briefs left so much to the imagination.

 

“And you say _I’m_ the gentleman,” Sam mumbled sarcastically.

 

Elliott pushed himself backwards on the bed so he was lying on it properly; he stretched out like a cat, movements becoming slow and languid. “So, what did you need again, Sam?”

 

Sam paused, deer-in-the-headlights style. He had knocked with the intention of taking care of Elliott, but once he was presented with the chance? He wanted nothing more than to burrow deep into the sand and never resurface. “I was worried about you,” he said.

 

Elliott’s mouth twisted into a sad smile. “I told you I could take care of myself. I have for the past two years, haven’t I?”

 

Elliott's words blanketed an overwhelming feeling of melancholy over Sam. Sam couldn’t imagine _not_ having someone there to help when he needed it.

 

“Just because you can doesn't mean you should,” Sam countered. “Everyone needs someone to take care of them.”

 

The look Elliott gave Sam made him feel very much as though Elliott thought Sam was the one in need of being taken care of and not the other way around. “Why don’t you lie here with me until I fall asleep, then? Would that ease your concerns?”

 

After the night’s events, the question shouldn’t have surprised Sam. Not after Elliott had asked to buy him a drink and said the things he had, and especially not after helping him undress. Sam felt like the driver of a car stranded on a busy highway watching while other cars sped past at seventy miles an hour; he could do nothing more than sit and watch as the night progressed at a pace that was equal parts too fast and too slow. If he could, he would rewind the evening and slow down at all of his favorite parts. As it stood, Sam would have to make do with the memories.

 

“What happened to preserving my modesty?” Sam asked.

 

At the sound of his voice, Elliott opened his eyes and peered up at Sam, gaze attentive and seeking. He wound a piece of hair around his finger. Thoughtfully, he said, “Surely you’ve shared a bed with another man before? Your friend Sebastian, perhaps?”

 

“Of course I have.”

 

Elliott gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. “No difference then, is there?”

 

Sam licked his lips once more and gave a quick, sharp nod of his head. Of course there was no difference. They were both men, and the only thing between them was a newly established friendship laden with Sam’s increasingly apparent attraction. “Course not,” he agreed as he toed his sneakers off and nudged them next to where he’d placed Elliott’s shoes. He flipped off the overhead light and shuffled carefully across the moonlit cabin before climbing awkwardly over Elliott and settling into the space closest to the wall. When Sam got settled in, Elliott’s body seemed to relax. His hair fanned out across the pillow, ends tickling Sam’s cheek with every breath he took in and out. Sam reached out and fingered the soft ends, inhaling the scent of his coconut shampoo and the sharp notes of Elliott’s cologne. Sam committed this too to memory.

 

“I’ll just stay until you fall asleep,” Sam whispered into the darkness.

 

“Thank you,” Elliott whispered back.

 

Sam kept his hand outstretched, fingers tangled in the tresses of Elliott’s hair. He listened closely for Elliott’s breathing to slow and even out. He could hear the crash of the waves on the shore, the soft hush of sand blowing across the beach and beating lightly into the sides of the cabin.

 

And much like his relationship with Elliott—completely unexpected and without warning—Sam fell asleep.

 

*

 

Zuzu City’s annual music festival was held at the largest outdoor amphitheater in the Midwestern portion of the Ferngill Republic. The amphitheater itself was home to a permanent main stage with a surrounding lawn for the bigger bands that performed in the festival and in separate concerts; roadies built smaller, temporary stages for lesser-known bands at various intervals between the water stations, alcohol vendors, and merch tables. The festival itself was a day-long event that seemed to be held on the hottest day of the summer every year. Sam couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t come home from the event sunburnt, miserable, and exhilarated; he had a feeling this time would be no less exciting.

 

Crowds had never bothered Sam before. He fed off the energy from the people watching the show, channeled it into the music he played with his friends and turned it into a source of inspiration for the performance as they played and enjoyed other bands throughout the evening. He loved the crowd, loved staring hard at every face he could and committing the looks on their faces to memory. People they had grown up with and performed for over the years knew some of their music, and listening to them sing along to the songs he and Sebastian had poured their hearts and souls into writing was like an out-of-body experience for Sam. Sam loved networking and talking to members of other bands and people who would consider themselves fans. It was a comfortable atmosphere for Sam, one he knew the inner and outer workings of despite the fact that every year brought some sort of new experience.

 

Tonight, though, Sam was nervous.

 

He shouldn’t have been, not really. The band he had with his friends—Next Stop Nowhere, they called it—had performed at Zuzu City’s annual music festival for going on five years now, and they had come a long way from performing in the arcade room at Gus’s on the weekends as a group of teenagers. Sam, Sebastian, Abigail, and their most recent addition—Abigail’s boyfriend, Nate—had played hundreds of shows since they had formed a band when they were fifteen, yet at twenty-two-years-old, Sam was feeling stage fright for the very first time.

 

It didn’t matter that they were the third band to take the stage they were performing on. Being third in the lineup wasn’t terrible, but it also wasn’t great; Sam knew the NDemic Energy stage was a position for the better-known area bands who hadn’t quite made it but were known well enough to have a substantial local following. He knew that, while the two bands that had gone before them served the purpose of fluffing for Next Stop Nowhere’s performance, there were three other bands to follow theirs.

 

What mattered was that Poppy and Leah had made a rather obvious point of the fact that Elliott was dropping his book off at his editor’s and would be in attendance today. It mattered that Sam had woken at a quarter to six that morning after falling asleep with Elliott, and he’d crept out while the older man still snored softly in bed. He hadn’t so much as left his phone number or a note, though he wasn’t wholly convinced that Elliott would even remember their sleeping in the same bed when it was all said and done. Elliott had been drunk, and people were known to do stupid things when alcohol was involved.

 

Sam had taken shots with the intentions of getting just buzzed enough to feel hyped for their performance. He wasn’t _on_ enough, not for the already pumped crowd and the set they’d chosen specifically; his blood bubbled all wrong beneath the surface. He was wired but not enough, not as much as he preferred going into a show. The Jägermeister hadn’t helped, and the NDemic energy drinks he’d been pounding with his waters weren’t kicking in the way he’d hoped. As he stood at the side of the stage just minutes before they were set to go on, he came to the realization that the jägerbombs had probably been a bad idea.

 

He repeated a mantra to himself and bounced on his toes, sweat trickling down his neck and wicking into the fabric of his tank top. There were people cloistering to the front of the stage, struggling for the best place to stand; he spotted a couple of t-shirts with their band logo. There were probably close to five hundred people in the crowd surrounding their stage; Sam scanned the crowd for any familiar faces. He saw the faces of people who’d followed the band for years; there were other, newer faces as well. A shock of blue hair caught his eye: Emily. Next to her stood Leah; when Sam lifted his gaze just slightly, he found Poppy perched atop Elliott’s shoulders. She was beaming, already wriggling in delight despite the fact that the music hadn’t even started. Elliott was grasping her thighs with his hands and trying to keep her in place. The four of them were crammed into the center of the crowd just on the outskirts of where the mosh pit would likely be; Sam’s stomach somersaulted painfully and he dragged his gaze away from them.

 

Abigail nudged Sam with her shoulder, smile spread wide across her face. “You guys ready?”

 

Nate winked at her and drummed his fingers lightly against the neck of his guitar. “Ready as we’ll ever be, babe.”

 

One set. Eight songs. Thirty minutes. One set. Eight songs. Thirty minutes. One set, and Sam watched as Abigail bounded onto the stage, purple hair flying behind her. She took a seat behind her kit and settled in for what would be a breakneck half hour. She cracked her knuckles, twirled the drumsticks around in her nimble fingers. Eight songs, and Sebastian was settling the strap of his bass guitar over his shoulder, eyes searching nervously across the bodies in the crowd from the side of the stage. Sucking air in through his nose, out through his mouth, line appearing between his dark brows. He looked at Sam, grin cracking his normally cool demeanor. Sam rocked back on his heels, closing his eyes for the briefest of seconds. They weren’t going on yet; they weren’t supposed to go on yet, not until—

Thirty minutes, and Nate and Sebastian stepped onto the stage. Sam’s eyes flitted to those four familiar faces in the crowd; Poppy was craning her neck to try and see where Sam was. Sebastian grinned out at the hundreds of faces watching and, leaning into his mic, said, “Zuzu City Music Festival. What’s good?” The cheers from the crowd were deafening.

 

That was Sam’s cue; he shoved the anxiety from Elliott’s presence in the crowd to the very back portion of his mind, mustered all the energy and sunshine he could, and stepped out so the crowd could see him. He took his spot in the center of the stage and plucked the mic from the stand. He thought back to the set list they’d agreed on—start with a cover, get them comfortable, that was always the gameplan—and mentally ran through the songs. He rolled the mic around in his palms and lifted it to his lips because the crowd was waiting, his bandmates were waiting, and he could feel Elliott Walton’s eyes boring into his body from behind the aviators perched on his perfect nose. Sam launched the band into their cover of A Day to Remember’s “All Signs Point to Lauderdale” without warning.

 

The crowd immediately burst into action, fists pitching into the air and heads banging in time with the music. Sam could feel the drums beating through the stage and vibrating into his chest. It sent his heart slamming at a fever pitch, fueled his body with adrenaline. Sam’s initial unease dissipated and was replaced with a kaleidoscope of feelings, vision blurring to a brilliant yellow.  Sam bounced from end to end of the stage and brushed the fingers of his free hand against the outstretched hands of the people closest to him.

 

Elliott had told Sam all of the great loves of his life had been artists of some form or another. Despite the fact that Sam wasn’t completely sold on the idea of love—not anymore—he wanted nothing more in that moment than for his performance tonight to be a tipping point for the older man.

 

He wanted Elliott to desire him as badly as he did Elliott.

 

The crowd separated, parting like the Red Sea so a hole gaped at the forefront of the stage. Sam kept singing, kept singing, body humming with energy. He was back by Sebastian now as he watched the ringleaders of the wall of death lift their fingers in the air and count _one, two, three_. Either side rushed forward as the drums and guitar built to a crescendo in the song; the sick sounds of flesh hitting flesh pounded below the music blasting from the stage. The concertgoers slammed into each other and pushed forward, hard, bodies crushing one another in a manic frenzy.

 

When their first song came to a close; Sam stood back and grinned. He was high, high, high, fingers trembling and sweaty against the mic. There were nosebleeds and bruises in the crowd; Sam felt a fleeting pang of jealousy that he was onstage and not out there experiencing it himself. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes.

 

“Zuzu City,” he said breathlessly, “What a way to start a fucking show.”

 

*

 

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said above the din of voices in the crowd, “do you think I could get this autographed?”

 

Sam looked up from the merch table in surprise. Elliott stood before him and looked, as always, far more beautiful than any man had a right to. He had on a v-neck shirt that brought out the color of his eyes and a pair of straight-legged jeans that molded to his lower half; his hair hung thick and shiny to the small of his back. Sam noticed people—men and women alike—looking at the older man, eyes roving over his face and body hungrily. He felt an irrational sense of jealousy in the pit of his stomach anytime a stranger’s gaze lingered. Elliott was not his to feel possessive over, but the emotion was there all the same. Sam simply didn’t know what to do with it.

 

Finding his voice after entirely too long of a pause, Sam managed, “Yeah.”

 

Elliott passed over the album he was holding up; Sam tore the cellophane wrapping from the case, opened it, and pulled out the cover art booklet. He grabbed the marker from his back pocket and uncapped it with his teeth before scribbling his signature across the bottom corner. The entire thing—Elliott asking and Sam signing—felt like a sort of game, a setup, somehow, and Sam wasn’t sure if he was playing along correctly.

 

Sam passed the album back to Elliott and turned to Abigail and Nate. They were elbows deep in a conversation with a kid who looked like he’d fallen face-first into a tackle box; Sam thought he heard the words _Prince Albert_ and _frenulum_ somewhere in the mix. Grimacing, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder and said (to no one in particular), “I’ll be around if you need me.”

 

Elliott fell into step alongside Sam as he led them away from Abigail and Nate. In the distance, Sam could hear the opening strains of Taking Back Sunday’s “MakeDamnSure.” Sam chanced a peek at Elliott’s profile and asked, “Did you enjoy the show?”

 

Elliott beamed. “I loved it.”

 

Sam’s chest felt as though a balloon were expanding in it, heart pounding with a pleasant, painful sensation. “Yeah?”

 

“There was one song in particular I liked—you said it was a new one?”

 

Sam knew the song Elliott was talking about. He had just written it a week ago, and they’d crammed to perfect it for the show in the days following. “How did it go?”

 

Elliott hummed softly under his breath as he thought. “‘I could rearrange my particles / Just to get inside of you,’” he recited.

 

“‘I don’t know if you want me / But I want to see this through,’” Sam finished softly. “That’s the one?”

 

Elliott’s smile was like butter on a summer day, warm and spreading across his whole face. “That’s the one exactly. Did you write that?”

 

“I did, actually.”

 

Elliott’s fingers were gentle when they squeezed at Sam’s wrist. “It’s a beautiful song. The whole set was amazing, honestly— _you_ were amazing, up there performing. You were running around onstage, interacting with the others in the band, and you jumped into that crowd of people at the end. That was terrifying!”

 

“It’s called a mosh pit,” Sam laughed.

 

Elliott shuddered. “It’s a little barbaric, if you ask me.”

 

Sam laughed again, still riding the buzz of the alcohol and the performance. He thought of Elliott, drunk and flirtatious, admitting that he had a tendency to fall for artists. Feeling emboldened by his own inebriation, Sam changed the subject by asking, “So, has anything changed for you?”

 

A confused smile played at the corners of Elliott’s mouth; he narrowly dodged a string of preteen girls as they shouldered past him. “What do you mean?”

 

Sam shrugged, studiously avoiding eye contact with the older man as they wound their way slowly through the vendors and onto the parking lawn. He wanted to know if Elliott had meant what he said last night; he wanted Elliott to know that he was okay with his falling for Sam, if that’s what happened. He _wanted_ him to. “You risked it, coming here. You told me you—that you tended to develop… quite a crush, as you said it, on performers.”

 

Sam felt the tension radiating from Elliott in waves. Tone casual to mask his underlying distress, Elliott said, “I did, did I? Did I say anything else?”

 

Sam tried not to notice the sense of despair blossoming in his chest at Elliott’s practiced avoidance of his question. “Fuck,” Sam stated. “You said fuck a lot.”

 

Elliott exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. “I’m afraid I don’t remember much of the evening past leaving Poppy’s,” he admitted. “If I said or did anything… I am truly sorry, Sam. I can tell you with utmost certainty that anything I did while under the influence is _not_ what I would do while sober.”

Sam didn’t respond. He couldn’t, not when Elliott’s apology stung like a slap to the face. When it became obvious that Sam wasn’t planning on responding, Elliott cleared his throat and asked, “Were you there for most of it, then?”

 

Sam lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I was at the saloon while you were, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“And I told you I had a type.”

 

“Musicians, actors, or writers,” Sam recited.

 

Elliott ruminated on this, then: “How did we even end up together? I came with Poppy and Leah, did I not?”

 

“Uh,” Sam managed. “You asked if you could buy me a drink.”

 

“You accepted, I presume?”

 

“Well, yeah. Free beer.” Elliott pressed his lips into a thin line; at the look on his face, Sam decided it would likely be best to start backpedaling now. “Honestly, if buying me a drink has you uncomfortable, maybe you don’t want to hear the rest of what your drunk alter ego did last night.”

 

“Are you telling me it gets worse?”

 

Sam said nothing.

 

“Sam,” Elliott said sternly. “If I did something untoward to you or someone else, I need to know so I can give a proper apology regardless of how embarrassing it is to hear the retelling.”

 

Sam cleared his throat, buzzed brain tripping over the details of last night’s adventures. “As far as I know, you didn’t do anything to anyone else,” he offered vaguely.

 

“But I did something to you.” A statement, not a question; Elliott’s tone had taken on a wary, unhappy quality. Sam heard a faint tremble in his voice.

 

“You didn’t do anything _to_ me. Not anything bad, at least. You were smashed, so Poppy and Leah had me take you home. You… were having some trouble with the buttons on your shirt, so you asked me to undress you. And we slept together—”

 

“ _We did what?_ ”

 

Sam waved his hands in front of his face. “It’s not a big deal! You said it yourself, I’ve slept with Sebastian plenty of times!”

 

Sam didn’t know it was possible, but the look on Elliott’s face grew even more horrified than it already was. He gripped Sam’s upper arms and pulled him aside so they were shadowed against the side of a van. Elliott’s eyes were wild; his fingers were digging so hard into Sam’s skin he was sure they’d leave marks. “Sam, _I don’t care_ if you’ve slept with Sebastian. I mean—I do, maybe a fraction, but not for the reasons you’d think. What I care about,” he said with a precision that both terrified and aroused Sam, “is that we slept together, and I was drunk.”

 

“Are you insinuating that we fucked while you were too drunk to consent?” Sam blurted. “And that I fucking slept with my _best friend_?”

 

“That’s not what I—”

 

“Because it sounds to me like you think I’m some sort of—”

 

“My performance was probably subpar,” Elliott interjected loudly. “I wasn’t planning on sleeping with you while I was drunk!”

 

“Elliott, we didn’t hook up! I helped you undress, then you got into bed. I wasn’t planning on falling asleep, but I did. When I say we slept together, I didn’t mean—Yoba, I didn’t think you’d automatically assume we fucked.”

 

“We didn’t—oh,” Elliott said dumbly. Then, grip on Sam’s arms softening, he asked, “And Sebastian, then? Have you…?”

 

Sam sighed. “Never.”

 

Visible relief washed over Elliott’s expression; he dropped his hands back to his sides and nodded once. “Good. Not that it matters to me, not really, but I’m glad that you haven’t. With him.”

 

“Now would be a good time for you to know an obscure fact about a rock musician,” Sam offered. “Always helps me break the tension.” Mind rolling over the mess of their conversation, Sam clarified, “You said you weren’t planning on sleeping with me _while you were drunk_. Are you saying you were planning on sleeping with me?”

 

Elliott scoffed, cheeks turning an even deeper pink below his facial hair. “You say the word ‘planning’ as if I sat around my cabin all day thinking of ways to defile you,” he sighed. “It’s not like that.”

 

Word vomit. Sam sensed he would regret saying what he was about to, but the sentences came out regardless of the inhibitions screaming at the back of his mind. “It would be okay if it was; I know I spend plenty of time thinking about the ways I’d like to defile _you_.”

 

Elliott sputtered. “I think _you’re_ drunk now.”

 

Sam took a measured step forward. Elliott mirrored the action but backwards, shuffling just slightly so his back pressed against the side of the van. Sam cocked his head and pretended to think about it. “Mmm, I don’t think so, actually.” Their bodies were nearly touching now, Sam’s knee nudging between both of Elliott’s and his body leaning into the heat Elliott’s was giving off. Sam could smell roses and the increasingly familiar scent of Elliott’s cologne mixed with the musky scent of sweat. He wanted to drown in it, in the comfortable and heady confusion Elliott’s presence seemed to consistently send Sam into.

 

“Oh?” Elliott cocked a brow. He didn’t believe Sam, not for a second. “You’re not?”

 

“Nope,” Sam said, popping the _p_ at the end. “Comfortably buzzed, I think.” His knee was pressed flush with Elliott’s now. He felt the strong muscles of Elliott’s thighs beneath the jeans, pressing in close against his own leg. Sam liked Elliott in jeans, the way the dark material clung to his thighs and shaped around his ass. He’d spent a good portion of the night trying to catch glimpses of it without being obvious. Judging from the looks Poppy and Leah had been giving Sam, he was not very good at being inconspicuous.

 

“Sort of like using the term ‘hookup’ for ‘date,’ I’d imagine,” Elliott teased, voice growing softer. “Would I be correct in assuming so?”

 

Sam made a noise like a buzzer going off. “ _Wrong_. I’m practically perfectly sober, I’ll have you know.”

 

Elliott’s green eyes studied Sam’s face closely, cataloging the details of whatever it was he saw there. He sucked on his upper lip thoughtfully, weighing out the words he was planning on saying next. Then, so quietly Sam was sure he heard wrong, Elliott murmured, “Only one word out of that entire phrase describes you, Sam Underhill, and sober is not it.”

 

Sam’s mind stumbled across the sentence he’d just spoken, boggled brain landing on _practically_ and _perfectly_ and _sober_ except it wasn’t sober, Elliott just made that perfectly clear, and Sam had never been a practical man, so—

 

“Oh,” Sam whispered. He blinked in surprise, world shifting from the uneasy axis he’d allowed himself to orbit comfortably around to this, whatever _this_ was. Sam was not entirely sure he knew how to operate effectively in a world in which a sober Elliott Walton reciprocated the desire Sam felt for him. Perhaps he was drunker than he realized, because the Elliott he thought he knew would never be so bold as to tell Sam an inherent lie such as _you’re perfect_. Sam knew, without a doubt, that he was the single most ordinary being on the planet.

 

Sam reached a hand up and fingered the beard sprouting across Elliott’s cheeks. The facial hair was a darker auburn than his actual hair, more of a brown than anything. It grew in thick and even across his skin; the older man kept it maintained so it did little more than highlight his strong cheekbones and jawline. Since last night, Sam caught himself—more frequently than he’d like to admit—wondering what Elliott’s whiskers would feel like pressed against the tender skin on the insides of his thighs. “I like this,” Sam said.

 

Elliott smiled again. “Thank you. I’m finding I rather like it as well. It’s done wonders for my ego if nothing else; it seems as though the entire town has an affinity for beards.”

 

Elliott’s smile drew Sam’s attention. His mouth was lush and pink, bottom lip full and prime for biting. His mouth was generous, arguably one of his best qualities (though Sam would argue that _all_ of Elliott’s qualities were the best).

 

Sam was still touching Elliott’s face. “Elliott,” he breathed, voice cobbled rough with desire, “I want to kiss the hell out of you.”

 

Elliott’s gaze darkened, eyes dropping to Sam’s mouth. “Why haven’t you, then?”

 

Sam slipped his fingers further back, tangling them in the soft hair at the nape of Elliott’s neck. His hair was thick and full, soft as silk; Sam gripped a handful and tipped the older man’s head down so he had better access. Sam nuzzled his nose against the perfectly straight slope of Elliott’s and breathed in the breaths blowing steadily from Elliott’s mouth. Sam tipped his chin forward, lips a breath away, and—

 

Sam experienced the sensation of falling without ever feeling the landing. There was a sharp tug at the collar of his shirt as he was jerked backwards, away from Elliott; Sam had the barest sense to unclench his fingers from around the roots of Elliott’s hair before he pulled on it too hard. The emptiness pressing in against his front after having Elliott so close left him feeling swallowed whole and hollowed out; despite the evening’s heat and humidity, Sam’s body felt cold without the warmth of Elliott tucked against him. Sam righted himself and batted at the hand gripping the collar of his shirt, redness creeping up his throat and into his cheeks.

 

“Sam,” Abigail said breathlessly, letting go of his shirt.

 

“What?” Sam licked his lips, eyes never leaving Elliott’s face. The older man stood looking equal parts startled and cockblocked, lips parted slightly and his hair ruffled where Sam’s fingers had combed through it. Sam noticed, ego swelling, as Elliott shifted slightly and attempted to adjust himself without being too obvious.

 

Abigail wound her arm through Sam’s and pulled him further away from Elliott. “You're needed,” she said vaguely. “Um, someone wanted to take our picture.” Turning to Elliott, she smiled awkwardly. “Thanks for coming to the show, Mr. Walton. And congratulations on your book!”

 

Before Elliott had the opportunity to muster a response, Abigail whisked Sam away. She walked at a brisk pace, arm wound so tightly through Sam’s that his shoulder ached from the force she was using to drag him along.

 

“So, who wants the picture?”

 

“Nobody,” she said, tone matter-of-fact. She stopped once they were well out of earshot and turned her head to watch as Elliott spotted Poppy and Leah and jogged to catch up with them. To Sam, she said, “You were about to make a big mistake, you know.”

 

Sam stiffened and rubbed at the back of his neck. He wanted to tell Abigail that kissing Elliott Walton could never be mistake, not in this life or the next, but saying the words aloud would only serve to further cement the feelings he felt wound tight in his chest. He had yet to properly address them with the object of his affections; it hardly seemed fair to bring them up to Abi.

 

The high he’d previously ridden from the mixture of the show, the alcohol, and Elliott was quickly waning, and he hated the way it made him feel.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, studying his face. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “No one wants their first kiss to taste like black licorice and Red Bull, Sam.”

 

“I've been kissed before,” Sam protested.

 

The corners of Abigail’s lips turned down in the semblance of a frown. “Yeah, but has it ever really counted for anything?”

 

Sam clamped his mouth shut.

 

“Look,” she continued, flicking a piece of purple hair behind her shoulder, “I don’t know what’s been going on with you for the past week or why you’re suddenly crawling down Elliott Walton’s throat. Honestly, Sam? It’s none of my business. But you’re not Sebastian; you’re better than him. Elliott and you both deserve better than some drunken makeout session.”

 

It took Sam a moment to remember that Abigail hadn’t been given the liberty of having a proper first kiss; Sebastian had cornered her at a party when they were sixteen and he was drunk off his ass. It was embarrassing enough, Abigail had disclosed afterwards, that she was sixteen and had never been kissed. But for one of her best friends to corner her at a high school party and all but shove his tongue down her throat? Sebastian didn’t remember it the next day, and if he did, he never brought it up.

 

Abigail, on the other hand, never forgot. Sure, she pretended like it hadn’t happened, but Sam distinctly remembered going to her house after school and watching as she put painstaking effort into creating an effigy of Sebastian out of cloth, batting, and hair she nicked from the brush he kept in his locker at school. Sam had been skeptical at first, but for months following the afternoon she pricked endlessly at the face of the doll, Sebastian was plagued with some of the worst acne Sam had ever seen.

 

It was enough to make him a believer.

 

“You’re right,” Sam agreed, mostly out of the quiet fear of Abigail he had harbored since that day.

 

“I always am.”

 

They watched as, in the distance, Sebastian took a girl’s hand and led her away from the stand of an alcohol vendor. They were laughing, beer sloshing from their plastic cups as he gripped her waist and pressed a sloppy kiss to the side of her neck.

 

Sam glanced over to Abigail. She looked small in that moment, frown marring her mouth and the set of her shoulders all wrong. She was happy now with Nate, her boyfriend from Ligo, but she would never approve of the things Sebastian did. She loved him—Sam did, too—but she didn’t condone the way he used physical intimacy to repress whatever it was that he was so desperately running from. Sam got the niggling sense that Abigail was playing her cards close to her chest; the way she was looking at him told him she knew something she wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

 

He slung an arm around her and tucked her in close to his side. “It hurts them, doesn’t it?” he said. “What he does? What he’s doing?”

 

“Yeah,” Abigail whispered, staring hard at the girl’s back as they retreated into the night. She shifted and turned to look up at Sam, glittering eyes studying his face.  “His brand of love has a way of doing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has followed along and left either comments or kudos! Dropping a note, even if it's just to say hi, makes our days. We love making new friends, and we especially love friends who ship Sam and Elliott as hard as we do :) Let us know you're reading along!
> 
> (Shameless self-promo—go check out my brilliant coauthor mercymain's awesome fic, Strings That Tie To You! If you like this, you'll love Strings—promise!)
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving!
> 
>  
> 
> xoxo ohsocyanide


	6. Chapter 6

Elliott stood shellshocked as he watched Abigail zoom out of sight with Sam in tow. He knew that he probably looked ridiculous leaning against the van with his mouth open, breathing sharply in and out. He certainly wanted to snap himself out of his daze and look more presentable, but he wasn’t quite able to will his body to move. He was too engrossed in feeling the ghost sensations that Sam had left in his wake. Elliott still felt them all distinctly: the pull at the back of his neck,  the fingers on his face,  the hot breath, smelling of liquor, rolling over his lips. There was no way for Elliott to downplay what had just happened - Sam had been about to _kiss him._ But he hadn’t. Because they’d been interrupted.

 

Thinking about it, Elliott couldn’t decide if he was more irritated or grateful for Abigail’s intrusion. On the one hand, it had been unbearably jarring to be so close to Sam, anticipation crackling at the ends of all his nerves, only to have him yanked away unceremoniously. He didn’t believe for a second that someone really needed a picture, and in the back of his mind Elliott wondered if maybe she had done it out of jealousy. Perhaps there was a history between her and Sam that Elliott didn’t know about. Or, quite possibly, she simply thought that Sam was about to do something he shouldn’t and decided to be a good friend and intervene. And in that regard, Elliott couldn’t truly be upset with her for whisking Sam away - because kissing Sam _would_ have been a mistake.

 

For one thing, Sam had been drinking. It would have been wrong for Elliott to abuse that fact by taking advantage of Sam when his guard was down. Normally, Elliott would have known that and behaved accordingly without the need for outside assistance. He had fended off plenty of drunken advances in the past and had no issue removing himself from a charged situation like that. Unfortunately, though, he had found himself entirely defenseless when it came to Sam tonight.

 

In the distance Elliott saw Leah and Poppy ambling about hand in hand. He quickly made his way towards them and Poppy waved as she saw him approach.

 

“Elliott! There you are! We thought you got snatched away by the mosh pit.”

 

“No, I’m quite safe,” Elliott said, fighting to make his voice sound casual.

 

“Where’s Sam?” Leah asked, peering around. “Didn’t you walk off with him a minute ago?”

 

“Ah, yes. He was detained. Band duties.”

 

“Hm,” Poppy murmured. She was watching him inquisitively, and for a terrible moment Elliott thought that she knew something. “Well do you know when he’ll be back?”

 

“No,” he said, a bit too quickly. “Abigail didn’t mention.”

 

“Oh well,” she said lightly, the curious expression on her face dropping. “Did you want to stay much longer? Leah and I need to be up early tomorrow, so we were looking to head out in a few minutes.”

 

“Sam and the band are going to be here for at least a few more hours if you didn’t want to leave yet,” Leah offered. “I know Emily’s riding back in the van with them, but they’d probably have room for you too.”

 

Elliott blanched at the idea of riding back to town crammed into a van with Sam and his friends. He had no doubt that, in that group, he would feel exceptionally old and out of touch. And with the almost-kiss still playing in the front of his mind, being in an enclosed and dark space with Sam would hardly lead to any rational decisions.

 

“No, I think I would prefer to leave with you,” he said. “Would you like to go now?”

 

Poppy frowned up at him. “We can’t go without saying goodbye! Plus I wanted Sam to sign our merch.”

 

“You know you’ll see him at home, right babe?” Leah said, squeezing her hand. “Why don’t we head towards the car and give him a call? If they’re busy we shouldn’t bother them.”

 

Elliott trailed behind Poppy and Leah for the next few minutes as they roamed the lawn trying to remember where they had parked. Poppy called Sam, Abigail, and Sebastian’s phones but didn’t get an answer from any of them. She cast a glance back towards Elliott and shrugged. Time to go, it seemed.

 

*

 

It was for the best, Elliott thought as he settled into the backseat of Poppy’s Jeep. The best thing to do right now was to put some time and space between himself and Sam before he only continued to dig a deeper hole for himself. As Poppy and Leah chatted away in the front seat, Elliott tried to take stock of what he was feeling.

 

To start with, Elliott needed to properly process the fact that if he hadn’t been stopped by Abigail, he would have kissed Sam tonight. Pining from a distance was one thing, and it was something that Elliott understood all too well. But tonight he had almost allowed his fantasies to bleed through to reality. That was something he couldn’t let happen again. Sam had been drunk, and Elliott had said as much out loud. But despite knowing that, he had still let Sam get close to him. He hadn’t pushed him away when he touched Elliott’s face or grabbed at his hair. He should have. So why didn’t he?

 

The simple answer was that it had felt good. He had gotten caught up in the feeling of his heart rate speeding up as Sam reached out to touch him and brought their faces together. He had liked Sam complimenting his beard, and he had certainly liked what he said after that.

 

_I want to kiss the hell out of you._

 

Just remembering it now, Elliott could feel himself getting uncomfortably hot. Even in his own inappropriate daydreams, Sam had never been that forward. It was a side of him that Elliott was surprised to see. It was a side of him that Elliott also found incredibly sexy.

 

Snapping him out of his reverie, Leah looked at him in the rearview mirror and spoke up. “Enjoy the show, Elliott? I know that kind of music’s not necessarily your style.”

 

“I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it, in fact,” he admitted. “I found the energy quite contagious.”

 

Poppy smiled back at him from the passenger seat, her legs kicked up onto the dashboard. “I know! So much fun, right? Really though, thanks a million for coming. The timing was just so perfect between this and your whole publisher business, it would have been weirder for us _not_ to go.”

 

“Yes, it was very lucky. Thank you again for agreeing to drive me up here to drop off my manuscript.”

 

“You put us in the dedication, Elliott,” Leah laughed. “It’s the least we can do. But we’re glad you liked the show.”

 

“Do you two go to many of these performances?”

 

“Whenever we can,” Leah replied.

 

“They’ve gotten so much better in just the past year,” Poppy said proudly. “Adding Abigail’s boyfriend really took some of the pressure off of Sam. He used to run around trying to be lead on guitar and vocals _and_ fidget with that sound system thingy. They were always good, don’t get me wrong, but this was maybe their best show yet. Don’t you think so, babe?”

 

“Definitely top three,” Leah agreed. She peered back into the rearview mirror again. “What do you think, Elliott? Our shop assistant is pretty impressive as a frontman, huh?”

 

“Yes,” Elliott said distantly. “Very much so.”

 

Elliott thought about how Sam had performed tonight. Watching him had been, in a word, intoxicating. It was true that seeing someone perform was the quickest way into Elliott’s heart, and Sam had been no exception. He had been alive on that stage, really and truly feeding off of the audience and sending his energy back out in return. Every word that he had sung felt honest and visceral, and Elliott had found himself absolutely struck silent by how pure and untethered Sam had looked up there. Sam clearly lived for that type of thrill, and he was the kind of electric performer that could pull an audience up to that same high that he was on. Elliott wasn’t normally one for bands of that sort, but even he found himself unable to resist swaying and dancing along to the music. Sam had been just that magnetic.

 

More than a few times throughout his set, Sam’s eyes had made their way over to where Elliott was standing with the others. Elliott wasn’t foolish enough to think that those looks had meant anything - any good showman knew to look around at the people they’re playing to - but still, every time their eyes locked, Elliott could feel himself stirring with desire.

 

Elliott had wanted Sam in that show just as the people in the crowd wanted him. Elliott had heard more than a few women comment on Sam’s looks as he surged across the stage. He had felt the eyes on his back as he approached Sam after the show and asked for his autograph, and he had seen the glares as Sam led him away to talk outside. That was, in large part, why Elliott allowed Sam to take things as far as he did on the lawn. He had _liked_ touting his relationship with Sam, even if he didn’t fully understand it himself, in plain view of all the people who knew firsthand just how attractive and talented Sam really was. Elliott’s mouth curled up into a bemused grin as he remembered how an ex had once told him that he suffered from a painfully obvious groupie kink.

 

It was a good thing that he was stone cold sober tonight, Elliot mused, or else there was no telling how far he would have taken things. Which reminded him of something else that was weighing on his mind.

 

“Poppy?” he asked, tone cautious.

 

“Yes, lovely?”

 

“Exactly what happened last night? At the bar. I’m having trouble remembering.”

 

There was a brief moment of silence before Poppy looked over at Leah and the two descended into a fit of giggles. Elliott waited patiently for them to finish before Poppy turned to look at him, face lit up with a coy smirk.

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

Elliott cleared his throat, not enjoying the feeling that he was being toyed with. “It was brought to my attention this evening that I may have been...untoward. I’m just trying to see if there’s anything I should know.”

 

“Untoward, huh?” Poppy teased. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

 

“And how would _you_ put it?” Elliott insisted.

 

Poppy hummed contemplatively before looking to Leah for help. “Well what would you call it, hon? Really really drunk?”

 

“I might say ‘frisky,’” Leah offered, a laugh on the edge of her voice. “But really drunk works too.”

 

Elliott groaned and sank farther back in his seat. “What did I do?”

 

“Well you mostly just sat and drank with us, and obviously we think you’re hilarious either way,” Poppy said. “You did an _amazing_ impression of Willy, which I recorded on my phone for safekeeping. And you played this game where you tried to recite all of Hamlet’s soliloquy and you took a drink whenever you couldn’t remember a line. So all in all it was just a lot of good wholesome fun.”

 

“And that’s all that happened?”

 

“Well, for the most part. But after a certain point you did sort of...look like you wanted to eat Sam alive.”

 

“I _what,”_ Elliott spat out, lurching forward.

 

“It wasn’t anything that bad, really!” Poppy exclaimed reassuringly, whirling around to look at him. “You were just sort of, you know, handsy. You had your arm around his chair and a couple times you leaned in really close to him, and it all just looked sort of, um, intimate?”

 

“Cozy,” Leah suggested.

 

“Cozy! Thank you, that’s a much better word for it!” Poppy gave Leah a quick peck on the cheek before turning back to Elliott. “But really sweetie, you were pretty drunk by that point, so none of us thought anything of it. Sam was a really good sport about it, I promise.”

 

“And why didn’t you two stop me from making a complete fool of myself?”

 

“We were sort of occupied,” Poppy said with a giggle. “But honestly Elliott, it was nothing scandalous. It was like a ten minute conversation maximum and then you went home.”

 

“With Sam,” Elliott prodded.

 

“Well you couldn’t really walk back on your own,” Leah said kindly. “Poppy asked him to make sure you got home okay and that was it.”

 

But that wasn’t it. Because somehow, Sam innocently walking Elliott home from the bar had turned into him spending the night in Elliott’s cabin. In his _bed._ Elliott wanted to know everything about last night, but clearly Poppy and Leah had no idea that anything had happened at all. If he pressed the topic any further he knew that Poppy would inevitably get suspicious, and that kind of scrutiny wasn’t something Elliott was well equipped to handle. It seemed that the only person that could answer his questions was Sam.

 

Backing off of the conversation, he gave a curt nod and leaned against his seat. Leah and Poppy fell back into their own idle chatter and Elliott spent the rest of the ride home in silence.

 

*

 

Elliott leaned back and turned his face to the sun while Penny worked silently across from him. They were sitting outside underneath her favorite tree on the edge of town square, and a soft breeze was gusting, ruffling the branches spread out above them and sending strands of hair blowing over Elliott’s shoulders. He cast a glance towards Penny and grinned to himself as he saw her slightly furrowed brow - a sure sign that she was concentrating deeply. A red pen was dangling from her mouth as she flipped through the pages of his manuscript, and every few minutes she would take it out, uncap it, and make corrections while muttering to herself. Elliott knew by now that there was no point in worrying about what she was writing. She would lay everything out for him when she was finished, and she got frustrated if he tried to interrupt her while she was in editing mode.

 

He was glad to be spending the afternoon with Penny. Elliott had grown accustomed to leaning on her for support and input throughout the course of his novel writing, but lately he had pulled back from reaching out to her. He had gotten too embarrassed by the glacial pace of his progress and didn’t want to feel as if he was burdening her and forcing her to give him praise that he didn’t deserve. Now, however, he was more than happy to have her looking things over. It was more of a courtesy than anything, as he had already dropped off his work to his editor. But Penny had a sharp eye and a strong mind for details, and Elliott always walked away from one of their sessions with a deeper understanding of his own writing and a fresh perspective. It would feel wrong to not give her access to the book as he entered this new juncture of the publishing process.

 

As he waited for her to finish, Elliott’s eyes hovered on the house that stood at the edge of the forest. That house used to mean nothing to him - it was just the place he walked past when he was on his way to visit Leah at her old cottage or while escorting Penny as she dropped off her students. Now, though, he truly understood the importance of that house. Because Sam lived there.

 

Elliott hadn’t seen or spoken to Sam since his concert a few days ago. Looking back, his thoughts about the past weekend were still confused and unsure. When he arrived home from the show his head was still spinning from the memory of Sam’s touch, and it had taken all of his willpower to not show up on the man’s doorstep the next day to finish what they had started on the lawn. Or talk, at least. About everything. Something was coming to a boiling point with the two of them, and Elliott could feel it. He only grew more interested in Sam as time went on, and it seemed that Sam wasn’t completely repulsed by that notion. But that created a lot of questions that Elliott didn’t feel he was truly able to answer. He had gone to bed after the concert hoping that he would wake up knowing exactly what he wanted to happen between the two of them. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. And days removed from the incident, things didn’t seem to be any clearer.

 

On the most basic level, Elliott knew that he found Sam attractive. He was honestly hard pressed to think of anyone that he found _more_ attractive.  He was more than a bit ashamed of it, but in the days that passed since the show he had found himself coming back to the memory of Sam’s lips being a breath away more than once as he was lying in bed, his hand roaming further and further down his body in response. He had wanted Sam ever since he saw him that afternoon on the beach, shirtless and glowing. That feeling had only gotten more intense in the month that had spanned between then and now. So, at the very least, Elliott knew that he wanted a physical relationship with Sam. He wanted to feel Sam’s skin flush against his own and see the expressions Sam made as he lost more and more of his composure.

 

But that couldn’t possibly be all that Elliott wanted. He had never been one for nameless and unattached affairs. He was simply too much of a romantic for that - it was impossible for him to be intimate with someone without developing feelings for them. For Elliott, deciding that he would sleep with someone also meant that he was deciding to be with them in a more permanent sense. Those feelings hadn’t always been returned, and Elliott had been burned more than once by his penchant for falling hard and fast, but the fact remained: he was interested in Sam for more than his body. And that realization had sat uncomfortably with Elliott for days. Perhaps it was because he was so much older than Sam, making any potential relationship with him seem improper. Or maybe it was because Elliott knew that someone as unremarkable as him could never hold Sam’s attention for long. Most likely, it was all of those reasons and many others that Elliott hadn’t even considered yet. But all of them combined to leave Elliott painfully aware that a relationship with Sam would never be sustainable. That didn’t stop him from wanting it, though.

 

Elliott wished that things were different, but he wished more than anything else that he could know how Sam felt. The younger man, for all his allure, remained largely a mystery to Elliott. He had no idea how Sam felt about Elliott’s advances at the bar or if he was deeply embarrassed about how he had behaved at the concert. Both of their close encounters had been fueled by good moods and booze, and therefore couldn’t really be trusted. That was, at the end of the day, the root of Elliott’s worries. He was losing sleep and developing feelings for a man who may very well want nothing to do with him when he was sober.

 

Penny placed the manuscript in the grass and looked up at him. Elliott was immensely grateful for the distraction, given the depressing turn his thoughts had taken. “Finished?” he asked.

 

“I think so,” Penny said with a nod. “There’s a few places I marked that I want to reread, but my first pass is done.”

 

Elliott watched her closely, but couldn’t read her face. “And?“

 

“First things first,” she said seriously, “do you have your editor’s phone number? There are a few grammatical errors I want to flag for her.”

 

“I’m sure she’s more than capable of spotting them herself,” Elliott chuckled.

 

“I just want to be sure!” she protested, picking up the pages again and flipping to a section she had earmarked. “There’s a particularly awkward dangling modifier on page 38 that she _needs_ to take out.”

 

“Penny,” he chided, “I promise my grammar is in safe hands with her. And if she misses it, I’ll change it on my end when she sends it back.” Penny didn’t seem satisfied, but she dropped it. “But poor use of modifiers aside, would it be too presumptuous to ask if you enjoyed it?” Elliott ventured after a moment.

 

With that, a warm smile spread across her face. “Of course I enjoyed it!”

 

Elliott let out a quick breath, relieved. “Wonderful.”

 

“You told me that you did a lot of rewrites of course, but I didn’t expect that you would have changed so much!” she continued.

 

“Yes, I found myself hit with a rather unexpected bout of inspiration. I hardly left my cabin for over a week.”

 

“Well it shows,” she said kindly. “You seem happier with it, too.”

 

“I am. Of course, that could just be my own bias showing. I’m more interested in how _you_ feel it’s improved.”

 

“Everything reads much smoother, I promise. The dialogue is so much more natural, and the plot feels way less rushed.” Penny leaned forward and placed her hand on Elliott’s knee, her expression supportive and genuine. “Really Elliott, I enjoyed the book before, but this is worlds better. I’m so excited for it to get published.”

 

“Thank you, Penny,” he said, a surge of affection causing him to choke up a little bit. He placed his hand on top of hers.

 

Penny beamed and opened her mouth to respond before something that she saw in the corner of her eye grabbed her attention. Her eyes lit up and she pulled her hand away from Elliott’s in order to wave at whoever she saw. “Hi, Sam!” she called.

 

Elliott almost winced in surprise and turned towards the direction Penny was waving, trying to keep his expression neutral. Sam was walking up, balancing a vase of flowers in the crook of his arm and holding a burlap sack. Poppy was next to him, carrying bouquets of her own. Their bright hair and flowers made the pair look like two splashes of vibrant paint against the green backdrop of the forest.

 

Elliott said nothing as the two approached, but stood up to receive them. Poppy would never let something as trivial as thorny plant stalks and glass containers keep her in the way of a good hug, and she bounded into Elliott when she reached him, snuggling into his arm. “Hello my dear! What brings you to town today?”

 

“I was visiting with Penny. I dropped my final draft off at her house a few days ago so she could read it, and she wanted to meet up to share her thoughts,” Elliott explained, motioning over to her. She was still seated by the tree, and Sam was bending over slightly to talk to her. He was standing with his back to Elliott, who tried his best to not let himself be hurt that Sam walked right past him without saying hello. He turned back to Poppy. “I assume you two are here for work?”

 

“What gave it away?” Poppy teased, looking down at her vases. “We’re making deliveries and stopping off at Pierre’s for some seeds and fertilizer.”

 

“Who are the deliveries for today?”

 

“These are for Evelyn, these are for Lewis, and these are for Robin,” Poppy said, nodding her head down at each vase as she indicated who was getting which. “Oh, and those are for you! Sammy, can you hand Elliott his flowers?”

 

Sam perked up and turned back to Elliott as if he had only just seen him standing there. He fumbled with the vase for a moment before walking over and handing them to Elliott without comment. Once again, Elliott tried not to feel hurt.

 

“These are lovely, Poppy,” he said, lightly touching the petals of the flowers and taking a tentative sniff. “But I didn’t order anything from you this week, did I?”

 

“No,” she said offhandedly, “but the peonies came in so pretty last night and I was just bursting with ideas for arrangement combinations this morning. And I’d been meaning to send you something to celebrate your book anyway.”

 

“That’s really too kind. Thank you.”

 

“If you want to thank someone, thank Sam. He’s the one that actually arranged it, I just threw a bunch of ideas at him and let him do his thing. The white cushion poms were his idea!”

 

Elliott looked up at Sam. They shared a charged look before Elliott spoke up. “Thank you, Sam. I love them,” he said finally, his voice much closer to a whisper than he had intended.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Sam answered. Elliott let his eyes linger for only a few more seconds before looking away.

 

Poppy was great at reading faces, so she probably would have been able to tell right away by looking at Elliott that he was upset about something. Luckily, however, she had moved onto other concerns.

 

“Penny!” she sang, crossing Elliott to walk over and sit in front of the tree, nudging Sam away  so that she had space to set down the vases. “I was just talking about you the other day! I found this really interesting artifact buried behind the bathhouse that I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

The two women fell into an involved discussion about the historic and regional context of chicken iconography, and Elliott suddenly had nothing to add to the discussion. He attempted to at least look interested, but kept stealing glances at Sam instead. He had walked a couple of feet away and was standing watching the river. Elliott knew that he should mind his own business and let Sam be. But he still found himself walking over all the same.

 

Sam glanced up at him before looking back out to the water again. “What’s up?” he asked.

 

“Not much, I’m afraid. How have you been?”

 

“Good,” Sam chirped. “Good. I've just been busy. Working, you know?”

 

“Of course. Well all the same, it’s nice to see you. I hadn’t expected to run into you today.”

 

Sam looked up at him, the guarded expression in his eyes wavering a bit. “Yeah, it’s good to see you too. I’m glad you like the flowers. I was going to walk them over myself, but Poppy started piling on the errands and I needed her help to carry things.”

 

Elliott smiled. He couldn’t help it. “That’s quite alright.”

 

Sam looked at the ground and shoved his hands in his pockets. Elliott heard him exhale a quick breath before blurting out, “Um, so just now. Were you and Penny… uh, on a date?”

 

Elliott’s eyes widened before looking back at Penny incredulously. “Of course not!”

 

A small smile flashed across Sam’s face. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice returning to the light and playful tone Elliott had grown used to. “You weren’t even hooking up?”

 

Elliott paled at the thought. Penny, more than anything else, reminded him of his younger sister Amelia, and he had told her so before. The idea of having anything more than a platonic friendship with her made him feel dirty. “Absolutely not,” he insisted. “We’re just friends.” Was this why Sam had seemed so uncomfortable before? He had assumed that he was interrupting a romantic moment between the two of them?

 

That very well may have been the issue, as Sam seemed to finally relax. “Sorry, I know it’s none of my business. It’s just that you were holding hands.”

 

“Oh! I see,” Elliott said, rubbing the back of his neck. He really hadn’t thought anything of Penny reaching out to touch him. He was simply used to physically affectionate relationships - romantic or platonic. “But still, no. Our relationship is the furthest thing from romantic. I’d have thought by now that you would know I’m not seeing anyone.”

 

Sam nodded and looked apologetic. “No, you’re right; I thought so. I mean, you know I’m not dating anyone either. Not that you care.”

 

Elliott sensed his own tension melting away as he watched Sam try to find the right words to say. He winked, unable to help himself. “I’ll try to remember that for future reference.”

 

Sam’s cheeks began to redden a little as he looked at Elliott, and he let out a breathless laugh before turning back to look at the water. This was right on the edge of being okay, Elliott mused to himself. He was used to this routine with Sam by now - joke, blush, flirt, and then pull back before it became real. He could stay like this, he thought. If the choice was between keeping this beautiful and confusing... _something_ between them, or risking it all by trying to push Sam to give things he wasn’t willing to, Elliott would have to find his happiness in this limbo.

 

Elliott watched Sam out of the corner of his eye and saw him shuffle his weight from foot to foot. “Hey,” Sam said, “I actually wanted to talk about something with you.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yeah. We kind of left things in a weird place the last time I saw you.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Poppy was still distracted before adding, “You know, at the concert.”

 

Elliott felt a chill run through his body. “Yes, I would say so,” he replied. He had wished to avoid this conversation, indefinitely if possible. He had honestly been hoping that Sam was too drunk that night to remember much of the concert at all. No such luck, it seemed.

 

Sam waited for him to say something else, but pressed on when it became clear that Elliott didn’t intend to offer anything more. “I really should have talked to you about it when I got back, but I just kept putting it off. I don’t know, I guess I’m just kind of awkward about things like this.”

 

“You’re not alone in that,” Elliott said softly.

 

Sam was looking him fully in the face now, his expression almost pained. He seemed to weigh his thoughts for a moment, but then the words started to spill out. “I just wanted to say sorry. I was pretty drunk that night, and I know that’s not an excuse, but I still feel really, really bad. I shouldn’t have come onto you and gotten in your space and almost - you know. I swear I wasn’t planning to do that.”

 

“I didn’t think you were.”

 

“Okay well. Good,” Sam muttered. “But seriously, I hope you’re not too angry with me. I wouldn’t blame you if you are, but I just - I’m sure you weren’t expecting it, and I would hate to make things...weird. I was being dumb and it won’t happen again.”

 

And there it was. Elliott wasn’t much of an actor, but his ability to keep his face steady in the wake of his feelings crashing around him was award-worthy. He knew he needed to actually say something in response to Sam, but for the life of him he had no idea how. _It won’t happen again._ Of course it wouldn’t. Elliott had expected that it wouldn’t. But to hear Sam say it out loud bruised him far more than he would care to admit.

 

Sam was gazing up at him, his eyes looking like they were searching for something. Elliott wanted more than anything to be able to give him whatever it was he was looking for. “Thank you for the apology,” he said finally. “I’m sorry that the night didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped.”

 

Sam didn’t say anything, and Elliott didn’t want him to. He wanted to leave - right now - before he had the chance to let himself get hurt any further. And he would have done just that if, at that very moment, Poppy didn’t clasp at his arms from behind and spin him around to face her.

 

“Elliott, Penny just had the most amazing idea!”

 

“Oh?” he asked feebly.

 

“Yes! Penny, tell him.”

 

Penny smiled and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well I was talking about your manuscript with Poppy, and she mentioned that it was a shame that it would be so long before anyone in town got to actually see your work. And then we started talking about the library, and-”

 

“She thinks she can convince Gunther to let you host a chapter reading there for the whole town!” Poppy cut in, too excited to wait for the ball to drop. “I’m going to go over there with her right now and ask him about it. Isn’t this the best thing you’ve heard all day?!”

 

It was not. Elliott could feel his blood pressure rising just thinking about it. “Poppy, it’s a nice thought, but I would prefer you didn’t.”

 

“Oh come on, Elliott, it would be the most exciting thing this town did in months!” she protested. “Everyone’s so happy about your book being done, we should add a little fanfare to it!”

 

“I wish I could, but no. You know I hate public speaking.”

 

“It doesn’t count as public speaking if you’re reading a book you wrote!”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense, Pop,” Sam said, finally joining the conversation.

 

Poppy shushed him and ran over to link arms with Penny. “Sam, can you babysit the flowers for me until I get back? Elliott, you should come with us to talk to Gunther.”

 

She had set out towards the library with Penny before either man could protest. Elliott cast one more look over at Sam, standing alone and looking lost, before turning on his heel and following after the two women without another word.

 

*

 

Elliott spent the entirety of Sunday in what felt like one prolonged anxiety attack. He woke up early and found himself absolutely unable to fall asleep again - he was simply too jittery and nervous. By the time the sun came up, he had already been pacing circles around the beach for almost an hour. He felt like kicking himself as he made another loop back to the cabin, looking down and watching as his feet stepped into footprints in the sand that he’d already made. He knew that he would get this way, and yet he had agreed to do the chapter reading anyway. Stupid.

 

Elliott’s physical reaction to the stress was uncomfortable, but hardly unique. Elliott had never considered himself to be a particularly laid-back person - someone who expended great personal effort to model their work and public image after mankind’s greatest romantic literary figures was bound to veer to the side of the dramatic more often than not. But his tendency for overthinking and theatrics always reached a fever pitch when it was time for him to put his face and writing on display. Which might imply that perhaps pursuing a career as a writer was a poor decision on Elliott’s part, but there wasn’t much he could do about it right now.

 

Writing was one thing. Elliott, despite all of the stress and doubt that had built up in the making of his book, truly enjoyed the process. He always had. But there was something viscerally unnerving about having to attach his work to himself publicly. If he could, Elliott would work under a pseudonym and live an otherwise anonymous life where he could write at his private leisure without feeling the need to justify himself to the people around him. Elliott was no psychologist, but it wasn’t hard to guess where this complex had come from. Growing up in an environment full of people constantly criticizing and belittling his interests had instilled in Elliott the cognitive dissonance of stubbornly wanting to pursue his dreams but also feeling deep shame whenever he made an attempt to do so. Back home, every writing contest or poetry competition he entered carried with it equal parts thrill and terror: if he did well then everyone would _have_ to acknowledge his talent and look at him more seriously. But if he did poorly, then it would be one more piece of validation for his detractors that Elliott was, in fact, never going to succeed.

 

Elliott’s anxiety had gotten much better since he moved to Pelican Town, largely because nobody had read any of his work before and therefore had no preconceived ideas about his skill. He was simply a writer, and they all accepted that fact on its face. But now, that identity was finally about to be placed on display. The residents of the town had lived for two years with the impression that Elliott knew what he was doing. Today would be the first time that those assumptions would be put to the test.

 

By the time he was standing in the library hours later,  watching townsfolk file in, Elliott was on the verge of cancelling the event altogether. He ducked out of view so that no one could see him and hid behind a row of bookshelves, trying to calm his breathing. He closed his eyes, but snapped them open again when he heard someone approach. Poppy stood before him, all smiles and curls. She made her way over and reached out for him.

 

“How are you feeling, Elliott?” she whispered, her hands tightly clutching his own.

 

“Like I would rather be at home in bed and away from all these people,” Elliott admitted, convinced that Poppy could feel how his hands had begun to sweat.

 

“You can do that afterwards!” she huffed, scrunching her face up like she was a mother scolding a cranky child. “The book’s already written, now all you have to do is just read the thing. It’s going to be great. _You’re_ great.”

 

Elliott made a low humming noise as he bounced on the balls of his feet nervously. “I’m just anxious. I don’t do well under pressure like this.”

 

“Where’s the pressure?” Poppy asked breezily. “You didn’t force anybody to come today - we’re all here because we support you and we want to hear what you’ve written.”

 

Elliott peered past the bookcase to look at the crowd that had assembled. He locked eyes with Leah, who was chatting with Emily. She smiled widely and gave him a thumbs up. Elliott took a deep breath before turning back to Poppy and nodding.

 

“You’re right. I apologize for being so dramatic.”

 

“Nothing to apologize for,” she said warmly, letting go of Elliott’s hands and pulling him into a quick hug. “Now go slap a smile on and give the people what they want.”

 

“I’ll do my best.”

 

Stepping back, she regarded him from arms length and smoothed the front of his coat before flitting away to join Leah. Elliott took one last deep breath and briefly contemplated escaping out of the library window before following after Poppy and making his way towards the podium.

 

Trying his best to convey the confidence and poise he always associated with natural born writers, Elliott cleared his throat and took in the audience. His breathing began to quicken as he felt the weight of everybody’s eyes on him, and he gripped the sides of the podium in order to hide the fact that his hands were shaking.

 

Elliott was surprised to see that it wasn’t just his friends like Poppy, Leah, and Penny who had come out to see him - there were quite a few townsfolk who he hardly knew peppering the crowd. And yet, regardless of how well he knew them, almost everyone was looking up at Elliott with the same look of interest and anticipation. He was thrilled (and terrified) to see that practically the entire town was in attendance.

 

Including Sam, Elliott realized. He hadn’t noticed Sam in the crowd initially, but now he saw that he was tucked away in the very back of the room along with his friends Sebastian and Abigail. Sebastian had his face buried in his phone and looked completely bored, and Abigail was in the process of nudging his shoulder and chiding him for it. Sam, however, was focused entirely on Elliott. He was perched on one of the library desks, and when he made eye contact with Elliott he gave him a small wave and mouthed a ‘hey.’ Elliott smiled back at him but quickly glanced away. His heart was threatening to pound out of his chest with nerves as it was, and the last thing he needed right now was to make that worse by fixating on Sam. Still, knowing that Sam was in the audience watching him instilled Elliott with a surprising amount of calm.

 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said finally, grateful that at least his voice sounded steady. “Before I begin, I would like to thank you all for coming. I am humbled by the kindness this town has shown me over the past two years, and I cannot think of a better place for a writer to set down roots. I would also particularly like to thank Poppy Daniels and Leah Everett,” he added, looking towards them. He could see that Poppy was already starting to cry. “I cannot state enough how much their friendship has kept me anchored as I worked to finish this novel. The level of love they share with their friends and with each other is more beautiful than anything I could hope to put into print.”

 

There was a brief pause as a few people in the audience clapped and Emily reached forward to hand Poppy a handkerchief to wipe away her tears. Elliott waited a few moments before continuing on.

 

“This novel is the first I have ever written and the product of three years’ work, so I feel deeply honored that I can share part of it with all of you today. Now let us begin.”

 

*

 

Elliott was only a couple steps out of the library before he felt a hand clasp his wrist. Startled, he snatched his arm away and whirled around to face whoever it was.

 

Sam stood before him, hand still outstretched. “Hey,” he said nervously. “Sorry if I scared you.”

 

“No, it’s quite alright,” Elliott assured him, relaxing. “Did you need something?”

 

“Not really. I just wanted to talk to you. Are you busy?”

 

“Not at all, I was only returning to my cabin. You’re welcome to walk with me if you’d like.”

 

“Okay!” Sam exhaled, face lighting up. He joined Elliott at his side and the two set out towards the beach. “Congratulations again on your book.”

 

“Thank you, Sam.”

 

“I liked hearing you read it,” he said eagerly. “I was kind of surprised you actually agreed to do this, though. Since you keep to yourself and all.”

 

“Well I tried my best to get out of it,” Elliott chuckled. “But you know how Poppy is when she’s set on an idea.”

 

Sam’s eyes glinted as he smirked up at Elliott. “Stubborn? Terrifying? Like a tiny, curly-haired battering ram?”

 

Elliott barked out a surprised laugh and covered his mouth with his hand to stifle it. “Yes, exactly. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

 

Sam continued to grin warmly, clearly pleased with his ability to make Elliott laugh. Elliott brought his hand back down to his side, and could have sworn that Sam flicked his own out at just the right moment so that their fingers brushed against each other. The touch lasted for less than a second, but it sent a shiver up Elliott’s spine all the same. He doubted that Sam did it on purpose, but he could dream. At this point, two years removed from any sort of romantic contact, Elliott was so starved for touch that the simple idea of walking through town holding Sam’s hand set his heart racing. He flexed his fingers and shoved his hand into his pocket to avoid the temptation.

 

Sam waited a beat before picking the conversation up again. “So… your book. What happens with it after this? Is it getting printed up right now?”

 

“No,” Elliott said with a sigh. “Now it goes off to my editor. I gave it to her in Zuzu City on the day of your show, so I’m awaiting her comments and recommendations. Once I have those I’ll see what changes I need to make and then get to work editing again.”

 

“Oh. So you still have more writing to do?”

 

“Yes, potentially a _lot_ more. In all likelihood the sections that I read today will be quite different by the time the book goes to print.”

 

“I guess I never thought about that,” Sam mused, looking up at him. “I don’t really know anything about book publishing.”

 

“To be fair, this is all new to me as well,” Elliott said kindly. “And what you lack in book industry experience you make up for in obscure facts about rock musicians.”

 

Sam laughed loudly at that. “That’s not a skill, Elliott. It’s just a stupid thing I do when I don’t know what else to say.”

 

“Well I find it quite charming. Do you have one for me now?”

 

Sam pursed his lips as he thought about it. “Uh… Morrissey loved Oscar Wilde when he was growing up. He read his poetry all the time.”

 

“Did he really?” Elliott asked, genuinely interested. “You know, I had quite a crush on him as a teenager.”

 

“Morrissey or Oscar Wilde?” Sam shot back playfully.

 

“Both,” Elliott quipped, which earned him another laugh from Sam. “They’re both geniuses in their own right, as far as I’m concerned.”

 

“Yeah, Morrissey is great!” Sam exclaimed, clearly grateful that there was something the two of them had in common. “I don’t really know anything about Oscar Wilde though. Other than your shirt.”

 

“You’re missing out, Sam,” Elliott said earnestly, a wistful smile playing across his face. “‘And there is nothing left to do but to kiss once again.’”

 

Sam’s eyes flashed up to meet his, cheeks reddening slightly. “Huh?”

 

Elliott grinned back at him as they crossed onto the bridge that led to the beach. “That was Wilde. ‘Her Voice.’ It’s a favorite of mine.”

 

“Oh,” Sam said, nodding and looking forward again. “So I wanted to ask you something,” he added after a few moments.

 

“You can ask me anything.”

 

“Okay, so stop me if this is a stupid question, but since you’re an expert when it comes to writing-” he trailed off when he heard Elliott scoff. “What?”

 

“I’m flattered Sam, but that’s a bit much. I’ve only written one novel, after all.”

 

“But you’re still a writer. And you’re going to write _more_ books, right?” Sam asked searchingly.

 

Elliott simply chuckled. They were only a few yards away from his cabin. “I don’t wish to get ahead of myself.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I’m still quite exhausted from writing _this_ one,” Elliott admitted. “And if, after all this work, my book doesn’t sell any copies and gets ravaged by the critics...I don’t know if I could see myself pursuing this career any further. It may simply be too much for me. My future isn’t quite clear at the moment, to be perfectly honest with you.”

 

Sam grew quiet. Casting a glance his way, Elliott could see that he was frowning slightly. When they arrived at the front door, Elliott turned to face him.

 

“Thank you for escorting me. Would you like to come in so we can speak further? Or not, if you’d prefer. I understand if you have somewhere else to be.”

 

“No,” Sam said quickly. “I’d like to. Thanks.”

 

Elliott gave him a small smile and opened the door, letting Sam through first. Once they were inside Sam cut across the room to sit on the piano bench. Elliott joined him.

 

“I loved your book, Elliott,” Sam blurted out as soon as Elliott was seated.

 

Elliott’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I - Thank you. You’re too kind.”

 

“I’m being serious,” Sam said with insistence. “I know I only heard the first two chapters, but I can’t wait to read the rest. And I don’t care if nobody buys it - you should keep writing. Because you’re really good at it.”

 

Elliott could feel heat rising across his chest and face as he stirred awkwardly in his seat. He never had been good at accepting compliments graciously, but hearing such praise from Sam was almost too much.

 

“Thank you. Again.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Sam replied, eyes regarding Elliott intensely. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, you know.”

 

“I appreciate that. So,” he coughed slightly to cut the tension in the air, “you mentioned outside that you had a question for me?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Sam said, shifting to face Elliott better. “I wanted to know about a specific part at the end of the second chapter.”

 

“Which part?”

 

“The part where Nina and Dalton waved goodbye on the platform. And Dalton said that line about meeting next summer and then she kissed him.”

 

“What about it?”

 

Sam licked his lips and looked at Elliott with an expression that was both scared and anticipatory. He let out a sharp breath before answering. “I wanted to know how you wrote the kiss so well.”

 

Elliott felt his breathing stop for a few brief seconds before picking it back up again. “You thought it was written well?”

 

“Well yeah,” Sam said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, I don’t really read fiction ever so maybe it’s just because I’m new to it. But the way you wrote it felt...I don’t know. Real. Like I could see it perfectly.”

 

“That’s very generous of you to say,” Elliott responded, voice low.

 

“I guess I just wanted to know,” Sam said finally, “how you were able to do that.”

 

Elliott looked away; the attention and the sight of Sam’s face so close to his own was quickly leading to a growing arousal that he wanted to hide. He hoped that Sam wouldn’t look down. “I suppose,” he began with slowly measured words, “that the key to writing any good kiss, especially a _first_ kiss, all hinges on balancing impatience with self-restraint.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” Elliott continued, “I mean that before you arrive at that point, it’s the job of the writer to create enough underlying desire that justifies a kiss at all. You as a reader should be able to _feel_ how much the characters want each other. But it’s also important to hold back in a way that lets the tension build, so that the final payoff is more satisfying. Every kiss is different, I suppose, but-”

 

In a flash, there was a hand at the back of Elliott’s neck and he was pulled down to meet Sam’s waiting lips. He made a soft, startled noise, but he was quickly lost in the sensation of having their mouths fused hungrily together. Sam angled his body so that their chests were pressed firmly against each other, and Elliott’s hand went to cup Sam’s face. The kiss was sudden and hasty, with neither man willing to slow down or pull back. Elliott felt his whole world shift and expand, and his breathing quickened. He realized, with the force of a punch to the gut, just how badly he had needed this. But he had to be sure that Sam needed this too - that he wasn’t in the middle of making some terrible mistake.

 

Elliott pulled back slightly and looked at Sam. The man’s eyes were closed and his mouth was still open. Once Sam processed that he was no longer kissing Elliott he opened his eyes slowly, looking dazed. He instinctively lunged forward again, fully prepared to resume what Elliott had interrupted, but Elliott kept his face away.

 

“Sam,” he said, voice almost a groan. It felt sexual to even say his name now, and Elliott wanted nothing more than to be consumed by his desire right then and there. But he had to be sure. “You’re certain you want this?”

 

Sam’s voice was breathy but obstinate. “Elliott, if you don’t kiss me right now I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

 

That was exactly what he needed to hear. Unthinking, Elliott grabbed Sam’s leg and hitched him up and over so that he was straddling Elliott on the bench. He brought their mouths back together and wrapped his arm tightly around Sam’s waist, locking him into place. Every touch and noise that they made was tinged with a delicious urgency that went straight to Elliott’s groin. Sam’s tongue darted into Elliott’s mouth and he brought his hands up to grasp at Elliott’s hair. Elliott felt dizzy with lust and brought his own hand down to grab at Sam’s ass. There wasn’t an inch of space between them, but he still wanted more. He wanted to be so fully buried in Sam, body and soul, that he would never have to feel empty ever again.

 

He could feel his erection straining against his pants and almost lost control completely when  Sam began grind against it, simultaneously using the motion to deepen their kiss even further. Elliott tore his mouth away and dove at Sam’s neck, wantonly sucking and licking up the side of it. Sam’s moans grew louder and more needy, and Elliott felt the grip around his hair tighten as Sam’s fists balled up into vises. It sent shockwaves of aching pleasure up Elliott’s spine.

 

“Fuck, Elliott,” Sam gasped out. “Why did this take us so long?”

 

Elliott truly didn’t know the answer to that, but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. He had no intention of letting Sam go after this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen guys...I have no excuse for this. This is a 9k word chapter and I am a disaster, but I sincerely hope you enjoyed. your comments up until now have been AMAZING and sweet and please feel free to drop a line on this chapter too! your support has been so welcome, we love hearing from people who love our boys just as much as we do. <3
> 
> -mercymain


	7. Chapter 7

Sam couldn’t bring himself to go home after leaving Elliott’s.

 

He knew that what he needed was sleep. He needed to rest before he even began what was sure to be a poor attempt at processing the first kiss and the ones after that—the long ones, the slow ones, the ones where Elliott raked his teeth across Sam’s Adam’s apple and smiled against his skin when Sam groaned in delight. His brain was lust-addled, fueled solely by desire and the need to keep kissing Elliott, properly finish what they’d started on the piano bench. Sam and Elliott had stopped before things progressed past roaming hands and curious glances; as a result, Sam was suffering from the most severe case of blue balls he’d ever had. He knew going home would result in tossing and turning and not sleeping, so he decided at the last minute to _not_ go home.

 

Sam didn’t want to delve too deep into the emotions he was currently experiencing. Before, having not kissed Elliott, Sam was able to minimize his attraction to the older man and consider it nothing more than a simple crush. Now, everything was different. The world had shifted during those moments in the cabin; Sam’s mind was rapidly catching up with the arrhythmic beating of his heart. The pulses were too rapid, out of time. Sam’s heart was a traitorous thing, feeling emotions that he knew good and well had no place there.

 

Whatever was happening between Sam and Elliott had been brewing over the past month. If Sam really considered it, it started that night on the beach, the night he sat with Janae and Elliott confronted him about the noise. Elliott asked Sam about being kissed the night he was drunk, and then there had been that near-miss at the concert.

 

There had come a point—and Sam recognized that as being tonight, watching Elliott read portions of his book—that Sam thought _fuck it_ and decided that he was going to kiss Elliott Walton. He had stared hard at Elliott’s mouth during the chapter reading, the way his lips formed around words, the way his tongue caressed nuances and tones, and decided that by the end of the night, he would know what that mouth tasted like. If Sam was reading all of the signals wrong and Elliott didn’t reciprocate, fine. If he _did_ —and boy, did he—great.

 

Sam had a general idea of what to expect after he had gripped the back of Elliott’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. He had expected tongue and lips and teeth, hungry hands tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and the press of Elliott, hard and wanting, against him. He had even expected—hoped for, at least—the shockwaves of pleasure that ached from the top of his head down into his toes every time Elliott gripped Sam’s hips and ground him down against his erection. Sam had, to a degree, expected the night to end in sex and an awkward goodbye.

 

It had not.

 

Instead, Elliott had stopped just as Sam was teetering on the precipice of being too far gone to really care, hands smoothing across the scratchy almost-stubble on Sam’s cheeks. He had asked Sam to lie down with him—not to fuck, Sam realized as Elliott stretched out on the bed and Sam nestled himself into the spaces his body matched up with Elliott’s. Elliott had touched him gently then, index finger tracing over the seam of Sam’s lips and along his jawline, gaze reverent and worshipful.

 

“I want to know you, Sam Underhill,” he had whispered in the space between their bodies, breath ghosting across Sam’s bruised mouth.

 

Sam was not in love with Elliott Walton, that much he knew, but he also knew that it would be horribly easy to fall in love with the older man if given the chance.

 

It was with that thought exactly that Sam changed direction at the last minute and, instead of turning left and heading for home, traipsed up the cobblestone path leading into the heart of town. He passed the saloon with its bright lights and music tinkling from the half-open door; ducked his head as he made his way past Pierre’s and the clinic, both dark and bedded down for the night. The cobbled path crumbled to nothing more than a well-beaten dirt trail as it wound out of town and up the mountain; Sam took the route by memory and stepped in time to the croaking of the cicadas.

 

Stupid as it may be, Sam needed to cleanse his palate. He felt the weight of Elliott’s mouth on his lips and jaw, felt the kisses soaking into his skin and wedging their way deep into his heart with the soft words Elliott had breathed into his ear. He knew that those things would only serve to deepen the already dangerous feelings Sam harbored for Elliott. Sam was afraid of feeling anything more than an intense desire and a curious attraction for Elliott. He could handle the mindless kissing; what he couldn't handle was the cuddling afterwards.

 

The cabin appeared before him; instead of knocking at the front door, he slipped around to the back of the house and pecked lightly at the door leading to the basement. It was barely past one in the morning, so Sam knew Sebastian was likely still awake and working.

 

Sam shuffled his feet, stuffed his hands in his pockets as he waited. A few minutes passed yet he didn’t knock again; he knew Sebastian was awake and that he would come to the door as soon as whatever piece of code he was working on was at a stopping point.

 

Nearly ten minutes passed before Sebastian appeared at the door. When he did, he cracked the blinds on the window, clear gray gaze peering through the slit to see Sam. The blinds snapped shut and the lock clicked; Sebastian opened the door but didn’t move to allow Sam entry. Instead, he stood with his brows raised into his mop of black bangs. He stood there in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts; his hair was tangled and there were gouges down the pale skin on his sides.

 

Sebastian wasn’t working—he’d taken someone home after the reading.

 

Sebastian pressed a finger to his lips in a shushing motion; he left the door open and disappeared from view. Sam heard a rustling noise, the shifting of clothing and covers. Sebastian’s voice drifted through the open door, soft and soothing. Something about _Sam here_ and _quick smoke_.  Whoever came home with him was still there; Sam heard her voice next. Sam wondered if he had interrupted their first round or if he had caught them during a short refractory period. There was the sound of a drawer being opened and closed, and then Sebastian reappeared. He now wore a t-shirt and a pair of jeans with the fly still undone; he held up an already rolled joint in question.

 

Wordlessly, he closed the door securely behind him and led Sam toward the easternmost side of the house. He dropped into a sitting position on the ground and gestured to the spot next to him. Sam took a seat indian-style and rested his hands on his knees. He felt Sebastian looking him over, assessing him. Sam knew his clothes were mussed and he probably had tracks from Elliott’s facial hair all over his face; he knew he should feel at least a degree of shame but couldn’t muster an ounce. Sebastian had shown up to Sam’s plenty of times after a hookup. What was the difference?

 

“She’s not going to care that you took a smoke break?”

 

Sebastian stuck the joint between his lips and retrieved the lighter from his pocket. “Nah,” he said, eyes fixed on the tip of the joint as he lit it. “I’m not dating her; I’m fucking her. She doesn’t get to care, just like I don’t get to care about whatever the fuck she does.” Sebastian stretched his legs out and took a long drag off the joint before passing it over to Sam.

 

“That doesn’t seem right to me,” Sam offered. He didn’t quite agree with that. He didn’t quite agree with a lot of Sebastian’s philosophies, but this one in particular always bothered him. If a girl drove to Pelican Town for sex, shouldn’t Sebastian give her the time of day? Sam took a pull off the joint and held the smoke in for a long time, eyes slanted with the strain it placed on his lungs. After several moments he released a breath; the smoke rolled out of his mouth and into the summer breeze. Sam watched, entranced, as it danced away.

 

“That’s why you carried the name Soft Sammy all through high school.”

 

Sam snorted. “Oh? I thought it was because I went through that chubby phase our sophomore year.”

 

Sebastian laughed, light catching behind his eyes. “No, man, it definitely wasn’t. The chubby phase definitely didn’t help your case, though.”

 

Sam took another toke and let the silence beat steadily between the two of them before asking, “Think I could get your advice on something?”

 

Sebastian gingerly accepted the joint back, cursing softly when he pinched too close to the cherry. “I think you’re gonna ask whether I say yes or not. What’s up?”

 

Sam sighed. Asking felt like a bad idea, but he didn’t know who else to talk to. He couldn’t talk to Poppy or Leah about it, not when they were Elliott’s closest friends; Abigail seemed to have a vague idea of what was going on but knew about as much as Sam did when it came to navigating relationships. He _definitely_ wasn’t going to ask his mother, not after she’d spent well over fifteen years of her twenty-two year-long marriage raising children alone while her husband made a career out of the military. That, unfortunately, left only Sebastian.

 

Sam felt high, but he wasn’t high enough to feel great about spilling the details of his relationship with Elliott to Sebastian. “This is hypothetical,” Sam started off.

 

Sebastian shot him a side glance, brows raised. He took another puff off the quickly waning joint, paper hissing as it burned.  “Of course.”

 

“If I were—say, if I were interested in someone… how would I even go about telling them that? How do I know if they’re interested, too?”

 

Without missing a beat, Sebastian said, “You’re _hypothetically_ talking about Elliott Walton, aren’t you?”

 

“Well, shit.” Sam took one last drag off the joint, smoke heavy in his lungs, before he tamped the burning end out on the group between the two of them. He felt the muscles in his shoulders unclenching, saw the world shift to a deeper purple hue than it usually had. “How’d you know?”

 

Sebastian settled back against the side of the house, body melting into the red pine exterior. Sam sensed Sebastian relaxing—he could see it, see the tension leave with the tightness around his eyes, watch as the permanent frown etched around the corners of his mouth eased up. There was a time in their lives when that tension hadn’t been there, but so many years had passed since then that Sam couldn’t quite remember what that felt like.

 

Sam felt guilty for it, but he almost preferred Sebastian high. His friend was still the no-bullshit, anxiety-riddled mess he always had been after he smoked, but there was something genuine about him. He was worn down, pliable enough to pull a genuine smile from in the midst of a conversation. Sebastian was stripped down, layer by layer, until he revealed the version of himself he’d tucked away once the girls and the anger and the anxiety had taken precedence. He was real in those moments, more so than when he was sober.

 

Sam missed his best friend.

 

“Well,” Sebastian drawled, pulling Sam away from his thoughts. “It’s not like it’s exactly a secret, is it? Him hanging all over you at the saloon? The way you waited around on him tonight?”

 

“You thought he was hanging all over me at the saloon?” Sebastian gave Sam a blink look, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. When it became clear that Sebastian wouldn’t dignify that question with a response, Sam sighed and let his head fall back against the side of the house. “He’s just _gorgeous_ ,” he blurted. The words bubbled up and out of his chest; his face melted into an easy grin. “And he’s so fucking smart, Seb. It’s the—have you seen his hair? And the beard?”

 

“He’s fuckin’ posh,” Sebastian mumbled. “Stuck up. And anyways, if you liked guys, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me throw all those girls at you?”

 

Sam immediately bristled. “He’s not posh,” he replied tartly. “He’s refined; there’s a difference.”

 

“Aged like a fine wine,” Sebastian offered dryly. “Because he’s ten years older than us, if you forgot that.”

 

Despite the obvious dig at their age difference, Sam barked out a laugh. It wasn’t funny, not really, because he was almost positive Seb was calling Elliott old. Elliott was the furthest thing from old; that’s what was so funny. That was the entire allure of it, wasn’t it? That Elliott was gorgeous and experienced and bearded? That Elliott obviously knew what he liked, that he knew what Sam wanted and needed without having to ask? For someone like Sam who knew virtually nothing about making another man feel even a fraction of what Elliott had made Sam feel earlier in the night, experience was the biggest fucking turn on.

 

Had Sam mentioned Elliott’s hair?

 

Sebastian cracked a smile and nudged Sam’s ribs with his elbow, dark eyes glittering in the hollows below his browbone. “For real though, man, had I known you weren’t into chicks, I wouldn’t have thrown so many at you. Hell, I wouldn’t have taken so many for myself.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah fucking right.”

 

Sebastian shoved Sam’s shoulder. “I’m being serious, dude! You know how much fuckin’ easier it would have been for both of us had I known you liked guys?”

 

Sam blinked past the comfortable purple haze fogging his vision, confusion clouding the pleasant high he was riding on. Sebastian sounded—he didn’t sound right, not exactly, not for the Sebastian he knew and had smoked with so frequently in the past. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Sebastian sounded… off. Put out, somehow.

 

Jealous?

 

Sam ruffled a hand through his hair, easy humor giving way to frustration. The tightness of the laughter in his abdomen relaxed slightly. “I don’t like guys; I like Elliott. There’s a difference.”

 

Sebastian smirked. “There’s no difference. A dick’s a dick.”

 

Sam frowned. That wasn’t true; there was a definite difference between what little he’d experienced of Elliott’s dick and whatever any other guy could possibly offer him. He couldn’t imagine wanting something else—not after tonight, not with the possibility of having it _again_ hanging tantalizingly before his eyes. That was yet another difference between Sam and Sebastian, though.

 

 _Soft Sammy_ , a small voice chided in the back of his head. Sam pushed that thought away and redirected the conversation. “You didn’t answer my question.”

 

Sebastian tugged his fingers through his hair. Face softening, he murmured, “Sam, you’d have to be blind to not see that he’s into you. That’s where the…” he trailed off and gestured vaguely to his face. “The burn came from?”

 

Sam reached a hand up to rub at his jaw. “Yeah. How do I—”

 

“Poppy’s aloe vera works wonders on that shit,” Sebastian offered. He flashed Sam a shit-eating grin. “Not that I have too much experience with getting rid of it.” He stood and stretched lazily, a pale strip of stomach flashing when his shirt raised. He reached a hand down and helped Sam up.

 

“Let me guess, going back for round two?”

 

Sebastian’s grin widened. “Round three, but thanks for asking.” He turned to part ways with Sam but paused, brow creasing. He swayed slightly in place; he reached out a hand and gripped tight at Sam’s shoulder. “You got that nickname for a reason, dude. Remember what I’ve tried to tell you.”

 

“In and out,” Sam recited, all the while knowing he had no intention of actually getting in and out. He was in, in, in, had been from that first moment on the beach. “Maximum pleasure and minimum attachment.”

 

Sebastian nodded. “He just wants to fuck. Don’t get your heart broken, alright?”

 

“Course not,” Sam agreed. He could feel his previous high clashing with the low he was riding into, happiness and fear and anxiety all coursing together to culminate into an overall sense of overstimulation. He always felt too much, too hard when he smoked, so he tried not to as often as Sebastian did.

 

Sam’s phone vibrated in his pocket; he waited until Sebastian had given him a small wave and headed back for the house before tugging it out of his pocket and opening the text. It was from Elliott. _I downloaded this Snapchat thing. What do I do with it now?_

 

Sam’s mood soared once more; he grinned and began typing out a response as he left the cabin.

 

In and out, Sebastian had reminded him. Maximum pleasure with minimum attachment.

 

 _Wait for me to send you something worth screenshotting_ , Sam typed out with a winky face attached at the end. He paused, bit his lip. Considered the ramifications of sending that, of deepening whatever it was _Oscar Gone Wilde_ had started on the beach all those weeks ago.

 

He hit send.

 

*

 

Sam found Poppy bright-eyed as ever in the shop the next morning. She was leaning against the counter smiling down at the screen of her phone, wild curls held back by a flimsy headband. Summer was in full swing; Sam could tell by the outcropping of freckles smattered generously across the planes of her face. She looked up when the bells above the shop door tinkled with Sam’s entrance.

 

Before she had a chance to say hello, Sam jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “There were weird noises coming from the garden. Should I be concerned?”

 

Poppy rolled her eyes good-naturedly and waved the question away with a flick of her hand. “Leah’s been reading up on the healing powers of Gregorian chanting. She’s trying something new with her morning yoga routine.”

 

Sam poured himself a cup of coffee and took a hesitant sip, appreciating the burn. It was scalding, heavy-bodied, and barely acidic—Poppy’s home roast today. “Honestly, I’m not even sure why I asked,” he admitted. He truly _didn’t_ know. He’d been around long enough to know that both Poppy and Leah were prone to strange whims and fancies. Sometimes it was skinny dipping in the fountain at midnight—which had happened once, after they smoked a particularly strong bowl—and other times, they all but tied Sam up to test new washes and creams on his sensitive skin. Poppy had pointed out that animal testing was wrong but testing on humans was totally okay; she could tell that to the rash Sam fought for two months after their last round of product testing, for all he was concerned. Gregorian chanting in the garden was nothing, really. Something he should have expected at this point in their friendship.

 

Sam peered down at the calendar on the counter and scanned the rest of the week’s schedule. Haley was using the sunflower field for a set of engagement photos this evening, which meant their usual harvest would be put off to tomorrow; the regular round of deliveries to the area stores needed done—things like lotions, soaps, and fresh honey, plus surplus from the produce Poppy grew; and wedding season was in full swing. Sam was scheduled to work every Friday evening and Saturday morning for the foreseeable future.

 

“How’s the order on the Mayfair wedding coming along?” Sam asked. “Michael hasn’t changed his mind again?”

 

Poppy huffed and set her phone on the counter. “He’s back to the _Louise Odier_. Last week, it was the _Ferdinand Pichard_. His fiance thought that was too tacky, and he thought the _Graham Thomas_ before that wasn’t wedding appropriate.”

 

“The _Graham Thomas_ is always wedding appropriate,” Sam lamented, mostly because it was the rose Poppy and Leah used for their wedding and he knew it was what Poppy wanted to hear.

 

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I know, right?” She noted something in a text message, grabbed a pad and paper, and started making notes. “He’s changing his mind again,” she sighed. “D’you—would you care to start on Pierre’s order for the lavender vinegar, Sam? You remember how to make it?”

 

“Happy to help, Pops. How many bundles this time?”

 

She paused mid-note and chewed thoughtfully at the end of her pen. “We’re shooting for about a dozen bottles of multipurpose cleaner out of this batch. Tell me, what’s the lavender to vinegar ratio?”

 

“One part lavender to four parts vinegar,” Sam responded automatically. Instead of attempting to do that math, he added, “Basically, you’re telling me we need a lot of lavender.”

 

“One day,” she sighed, “you won’t need little old me to run the shop. You’ll be able to do it all on your own!”

 

Sam rolled his eyes and headed for the cellar. He almost told her that the day she left would be the day Poppies and Posies fell, but he wasn’t sure he could deal with an inflated ego on top of Poppy’s usual pep. He took the steps and ducked his head on the way down to avoid hitting it like he did the first time Poppy sent him down for supplies.

 

The cellar was well-lit and smelled of various herbs and flowers: sprays of mint, sage bundled in twine for cleansing rituals, flowers hanging from the rafters for potpourri. There were homemade wines and pale ales on the far side of the room; jams and canned produce lined shelves. Empty bottles, glass jars, and vases in varying shapes and sizes were lined neatly along another set of shelves by size and color. Sam found the lavender, grabbed about six bundles and a case of mason jars, and headed for the stairs once more.

 

Sam could hear Poppy’s laugh as he ascended the stairs. She asked a question, voice light and teasing, and a deeper voice—one that sent gooseflesh crawling up Sam’s arms and left a flush across his cheeks - rumbled something in response. Sam could feel his body instinctively responding to the smooth baritone, the refined pronunciation of the words coming out of the speaker’s mouth. He knew what that voice sounded like in a moan, in a breath, when it spoke words pressed so closely against his mouth he could feel them forming before they were even said.

 

Elliott was in the shop.

 

Steeling his rattled nerves and reminding himself firmly that work was not the place to sport an erection of any sort, Sam took the stairs two at a time and stepped back into the sunlit space of the shop.

 

Elliott looked good—no, better than good, Sam decided—standing there in the kitchen of Poppy’s shop. His hair was tugged into a messy half-bun, soft tendrils framing his face; beard trimmed neatly; cheekbones cut sharp below the sea-glass green of his eyes. His bare chest was flushed with exertion; Poppy had mentioned Leah and Elliott did yoga in the mornings. A bead of sweat streaked down the exposed side of Elliott’s neck; Sam licked his lips unconsciously and wanted nothing more in that moment than to taste him. Elliott’s eyes briefly met Sam’s before darting back to the floor.

 

Sam made his way to the counter and placed everything in order of when he would need it. He removed the twine from the first bundle of dried lavender and began rubbing the buds off with a little more aggression than was actually necessary.

 

“So, how was your morning session?” Poppy called from the supply closet. She reappeared with several jugs of vinegar in both arms; she set them carefully on the countertop before pecking a quick kiss to Leah’s cheek. She started unpackaging the jars next, removing them from the box and twisting off lids.

 

Leah beamed and toyed with the end of her braid. Her face was red; Sam could see beads of sweat breaking out across the exposed skin of her cleavage. “It was good! We’ve been working on the shoulder-pressing pose for about a week now. You should see Elliott’s form; it’s beautiful.”

 

Elliott immediately cut in. “My form is _far_ from beautiful, Leah. You’re too generous with me.”

 

Leah rolled her eyes and poked her head into the fridge. “Don’t listen to him, guys. He’s being modest. Remember when he first started? He was awful.” She closed the refrigerator door empty handed and, changing the subject, asked, “Where’s the kale?”

 

“I put it in the house. You never make your smoothies out here because I use the blender for the hot pepper cream. I rinsed it for you last night because I knew you’d want it for this morning.” Poppy finished lining the bottles up in a row and started dividing the lavender into piles to be distributed evenly among the bottles.

 

Leah slipped her arms around Poppy’s waist and squeezed, chin resting atop Poppy’s shoulder. “Thank you for that,” she murmured.

 

Poppy’s eyes drifted shut as she leaned into the embrace; she reached a small hand up to cup Leah’s cheek. “It makes me happy to help,” she responded softly. Turning her face to nuzzle her nose against Leah’s, she asked, “Did you need help making those smoothies?”

 

Sam allowed his gaze to meet Elliott’s, brows raised. Poppy’s and Leah’s public displays of affection were typical; Sam had gotten used to them as he spent more and more time with the two women. Judging from the look Elliott was returning, he was used to this, too.

 

Leah hummed softly. “I would _love_ help.”

 

Poppy extracted herself from Leah’s arms. She looked at both Sam and Elliott, cheeks flushed. “You two can hold down the fort while we’re making smoothies?”

 

Sam continued to rub lavender buds from the stems, mouth lifting into a grin. “I’ve been working here long enough to manage on my own for a few minutes, Pops,” he answered.

 

Poppy smiled at Sam, all teeth and sunshine. “I know you have, and you’ve been a lifesaver.”

 

Leah slipped her fingers through her wife’s and tugged her to the door. “We’ll be back in a few minutes with those smoothies,” she called over her shoulder.

 

The door closed firmly behind the two women. Sam and Elliott sat for a few moments in awkward silence, then Elliott said, “Why do I have a feeling that ‘making smoothies’ is the new ‘hooking up’?”

 

Sam snorted, chin tucked close to his chest. He picked up where Poppy had left off in dividing the lavender into even piles, keeping his eyes locked on the task at hand. He hadn’t planned on being alone with Elliott—not again, not this soon. Maybe not ever, not if he was being completely honest with himself.

 

Allowing himself to desire Elliott was putting Sam in a dangerous position of wanting things he knew he wouldn’t get out of a physical relationship with the older man. He wanted to get off—now more than ever, with Elliott standing there in nothing but a pair of loose-fitting pants that hung tantalizingly low on his hips—but more than that, he wanted an emotional connection. He wanted the things Sebastian purposely avoided with the girls he slept with.

 

Sam was terrified of the notion that if he gave his body to Elliott Walton, that’s all he would receive in return. He wanted… He wanted the cuddling afterwards, like Elliott had given him last night. He wanted the words and the phrases Elliott had mumbled into his neck, the soft press of his long fingers tucked securely against Sam’s palm as he led him to the door. He wanted the unhappy noise Elliott had made when Sam said that it was late, he should probably go. He wanted to hear the words _stay_ but not in that context, in the forever sort of context he’d never heard used before.

 

It didn’t matter that Sam had yet to give Elliott his body because—inexplicably, inexorably—Sam had already given him at least a piece of his heart.

 

He knew with a cold sense of certainty that he was likely to never get that piece back.

 

Fingertips at his wrist. “Sam,” Elliott murmured, voice close and body closer. Elliott had come around the counter and now stood too close for friends and too far away for lovers, fingers wrapped around Sam’s wrist.

 

Sam sucked in a deep breath and exhaled before shifting to face him head on. This close he could smell the musky sweat drying on Elliott’s skin, the scent of his shampoo, and the sharpness of the oils Leah had rubbed onto his temples before they’d started practicing. “Elliott,” he responded, voice gravelly.

 

Last night had happened; Sam couldn’t deny that. Sam and Elliott had done the things they’d done, their weeks of pent-up desire and frustration finally bubbling over into the cramped spaces of Elliott’s cabin. The heat between them felt strong enough to boil Sam alive. He was hungry for Elliott, for the taste of his tongue and the tang of sweat on his skin. Sam couldn’t deny the fact that last night had, for better or worse, happened. Sam wanted very much for it to happen again.

 

Surprising even himself with the admission, Sam whispered, “You are the single most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen.”

 

Elliott’s breath hesitated, caught in his throat. He reached forward to press a palm against the small of Sam’s back and, urging him forward, closed the space that remained between their bodies. He ducked his head down and paused for the briefest of seconds, eyes catching Sam’s for reassurance.

 

Sam gave the barest hint of a nod, and Elliott kissed him.

 

Elliott’s mouth was hot on Sam’s, lips soft and pliant. His was the sort of mouth that was practically created for the act of kissing which he made into an art, Sam realized only as he was drowning in it. Sam pressed the entire length of his body against Elliott’s and wound a hand in his hair. His free hand drifted down Elliott’s side, fingers tickling lightly along the exposed skin on his bare abdomen. He settled his palm along the curve of Elliott’s ass, muscles well-formed and taut. He squeezed lightly, experimentally, and Elliott groaned softly and rutted his hips into Sam’s. He was half-hard already, dick tenting out against the flowy fabric of the pants he’d worn to do yoga in. Sam shifted slightly and Elliott rolled his hips once more, fingers digging into the sensitive skin at Sam’s waist to hold him in place.

 

Sam sucked at Elliott’s bottom lip lightly, broke the kiss to drag the rough patch of his tongue along the sweat-stained side of Elliott’s neck. Sam tasted salt and the bitter hint of aftershave and essential oils. He dragged his teeth lightly across the hollow just below Elliott’s ear, a soft moan breaking the studied silence between the two of them. He nibbled at the cut of Elliott’s collarbone and followed its point to his shoulder, mouth leaving wet tracks across his smooth skin.

 

Elliott took Sam’s chin between his thumb and index finger and directed Sam so he was eye level with Elliott once more. He kept his fingers there, grip a little too stern to be entirely comfortable. It made Sam’s cock jump; he tried to pull away and felt a shocked thrill when Elliott held him firmly in place. Desire flushed up his body; he tried pulling away a second time and Elliott’s grip grew firmer still. Sam growled softly and canted his hips towards the older man’s. He wanted to _taste_ Elliott, memorize the flavors of his skin and the musk of the sweat in all the creases and crevices of his body. He wanted him _now_ , _here_ , against the counter of Poppy’s shop.

 

Elliott’s gaze studied Sam’s face for a moment, gauging the reaction he’d elicited out of the younger man in the moments prior. Smile playing across the swollen edges of his mouth, he murmured, “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

 

Instead of answering, Sam’s lips sought purchase against Elliott’s once more, tongue sliding in past the seam of his mouth. Sam licked along the line of Elliott’s tongue, tip roving over the expanse of teeth as he explored.  Elliott bowed Sam back against the counter and suckled at his tongue, beard burning fresh tracks across Sam’s cleanly shaven face.

 

For Sam, kissing Elliott was like taking a long drink when he hadn’t realized he was parched in the first place, like the sensation of stepping out across a stage and seeing the hundreds of faces staring up from the crowd. It sent a pleasant swooping sensation through Sam’s belly, left desire pooling hot and thick in his abdomen.

 

Sam nudged his fingers below the elastic band of Elliott’s pants and gripped his ass in both hands. The skin was firm and smooth; Sam kneaded his cheeks and urged Elliott closer against him. Elliott released another soft, strangled moan, the sound velvet and luxurious vibrating in Sam’s mouth. He slipped his hands down to the backs of Sam’s thighs and lifted him up onto the counter before wedging his slender waist into the gap between Sam’s knees.

 

Sam kept his hands planted firmly on Elliott’s ass and alternated between kneading and squeezing. There was a difference; he’d learned that much last night on the piano bench. He felt stricken with the desire to slide a hand around to the front and touch Elliott properly, the way he deserved and needed to be touched, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it for fear that he’d do it all wrong.

 

One of Elliott’s hands was skirting up, up, fingers tweaking at the pebbled peak of Sam’s right nipple, eliciting a shocked groan from Sam. Elliott did it once more, humming in pleasure when Sam writhed against him again. He dropped the other hand to Sam’s lap and palmed at the erection pressing painfully into his jeans, touch barely edging into _too rough_ territory.

 

Sam gripped at Elliott’s asscheeks so tight he was sure it would leave bruises and hissed his name when Elliott ducked down to graze his teeth along the defined line of Sam’s cock tented against his thigh.

 

“Smoothies are here, boys!” Poppy bounced in brandishing a tray with four glasses, straws poking out of each of them. She froze when she saw Sam and Elliott. It was comical, almost, to watch as Leah followed mindlessly after, bumping into Poppy’s back when she failed to notice that Poppy had stopped.

 

The sound their mouths made when they pulled apart was obscene. The muscles of Elliott’s back rippled and tensed with the realization that they'd been caught; his fingers twitched and moved away from Sam's skin. He tugged the shirt back down into place and smoothed the creases, movements stiff and unsure.

 

Elliott was pulling away from Sam. Instinctively, Sam's heels tucked into the backs of Elliott’s thighs; he removed his hands from Elliott’s ass and planted them firmly on the countertop, fingers burning. He was holding Elliott in place, keeping him from pulling away, and he wasn't quite sure why. All he knew was that if he heard an excuse come out of Elliott’s mouth as to why they were twined around one another, his heart would break.

 

Elliott regarded him closely, brows drawn together. Sam could practically see the thoughts spinning in his mind. The flush that stained his neck from their kissing had darkened to a scarlet; it was steadily creeping up his jaw and across his cheeks. He was embarrassed. Shifting slightly but keeping his hips pinned carefully against the counter, Elliott gave Poppy and Leah the full weight of his gaze.

 

“Oh, Yoba,” Poppy managed after several beats of awkward silence. Her face was quickly pinking up, cheeks flushing with either surprise or excitement. “You two—you’re _actually_ —”

 

“It’s not often that you see Poppy Daniels speechless, boys. Better enjoy it while you can.” Leah winked, plucked the tray of smoothies from her wife’s hands, and set it smoothly on the counter. She picked one at random and took a long drag from the straw, cheeks hollowing out as she sucked.

 

Elliott shot Sam another look, searching for some form of support before speaking. “It’s not whatever you’re thinking, you two, I can tell you that much.”

 

Poppy remained rooted to the spot she’d stopped in, eyes glazed in shock. She looked from Sam and Elliott to Leah in disbelief, taking in the bitten mouths and the mussed hair and the still-prominent erection tenting from Elliott’s flowy pants.

 

Leah, normally quiet compared to Poppy, took the lead. “Care to elaborate, then? I have a feeling Poppy’s going to have plenty to say when she manages to work through her shock, but we’re perfectly happy to listen until that point.”

 

Elliott spoke once again, tone slightly more matter-of-fact. “It’s not like I make a habit of ravishing your employees while they’re on the clock, for one.”

 

“Employee,” Poppy corrected numbly. “We only have one.”

 

“And while you may not make a habit of it, it looked like you were well on your way to _ravishing_ our employee when we walked back in,” Leah added.

  
Sam found his voice. “It’s a two way street; maybe I provide additional services to the clientele.”

 

Leah snorted into her smoothie. “Right, because Evelyn Mullner needs to be ravished after you drop off her weekly delivery.”

 

Sam choked in surprise. Any semi he’d previously sported was sure to be waning now; he could feel himself softening at the thought of touching Mrs. Mullner in any way outside of the awkward hand pats she gave anytime he stopped to speak with her. “It’s a good thing Poppy makes that delivery then, I suppose,” he said quietly. His heels were still pressed firmly into the backs of Elliott’s thighs; he thought about moving them but decided against it. Elliott was still hard, he reasoned, and he didn’t think Poppy and Leah would appreciate being treated to an eyeful of dick this early in the morning, if ever.

 

The sensation of Elliott’s fingers looping with Sam’s took him by surprise. He spread his fingers, allowing Elliott’s to settle rightly in the empty spaces between his own. Elliott rubbed his thumb lightly across the tender patch of skin along Sam’s inner wrist; another round gooseflesh pebbled up in its wake. He kept their joined hands hidden carefully against Sam’s thigh so Poppy and Leah would be unable to see.

 

Poppy took a few hesitant steps further into the shop, stopping only once her side was pressed firmly into Leah’s. Still staring at Sam and Elliott, she said, “You specified that you didn’t ravish our employees while they were on the clock. Can I assume, then, that—”

 

“ _No_ ,” Elliott interjected. “We’re not ravishing one another while he’s off the clock, either.”

 

Vehement denial. Sam hadn’t expected it to sting quite as badly as it did, but the sound of Elliott’s immediate response left him feeling flayed open. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way, not when he considered that they had only made out for the first time last night and that they had never had a real conversation before the first of summer. They hadn’t _made a habit_ of anything; Sam wasn’t even entirely sure they were what most would consider friends. Elliott’s denial shouldn’t hurt, not as badly as it did. Not when his fingers were pressed so securely into Sam’s.

 

“You don’t have to talk about your singular employee like I’m not in the room. I’m sitting right here, guys,” Sam interrupted.

 

Elliott’s smile was soft; his free hand reached up to squeeze Sam’s knee affectionately. Low, he murmured, “How could I forget?”

 

Sam’s breath stuttered in his throat.  He felt a sensation not unlike whiplash; Elliott’s simultaneous denial of their burgeoning relationship and his encouraging gestures were doing nothing but further confusing Sam. He wanted to tell Elliott that he needed to either choose holding his hand or denying the fact that something nameless had been developing between them over the course of the past month, but he remained silent.

 

Elliott thought Sam was attractive, and he thought Sam needed to be properly kissed on a regular basis. He was practically doing a public service by kissing him, once Sam really thought about it. It didn’t mean anything, not in the long run. It only meant that Elliott wanted to fuck Sam, much like Sebastian had said. Elliott was older and more experienced; of course his approach to bringing a lover to bed would be vastly different from the few backseat hookups of Sam’s past experiences.

 

Love did not exist in the relationships he had witnessed outside of Poppy’s and Leah’s; this fling with Elliott Walton was no different. Still, telling himself that did nothing to ease the stinging sensation Sam felt blossoming through his chest.

 

Sam swallowed past the tightness in his throat and forced his brain to function past the irrational pleasure of having Elliott holding his hand. “Pops, Leah, I’m sorry you walked in on that. We—I… I shouldn’t have let things get that far. I’m at work; it was inappropriate. Completely my fault.”

 

“I came onto Sam,” Elliott interjected quickly. “I approached him, I kissed him first—”

 

Poppy let out a breathless laugh, effectively cutting off Elliott. “You think I’m angry with you? I’m not angry; I would never be angry with you over something like this. I’m pleasantly surprised, is all. Overjoyed, if I’m being totally honest with you. I don’t think this should become a habit, but I’m supporting it if it means you two are going to finally listen to my advice.”

 

Leah took another sip of her smoothie and nodded sagely. “You both know we wanted you two to date long before now,” she explained. “We were trying to push you together at our wedding and you weren’t having it, if I remember correctly. So seeing it now is… jarring, to say the least. In the best way,” she added hastily.

 

Sam felt the tension in Elliott’s body before he even opened his mouth. The discomfort in Elliott’s tone was thinly veiled; Sam felt Elliott’s fingers tighten around his. He squeezed once, twice, three times before stuttering, “We’re not dating, Poppy.”

 

Sam was suddenly very interested in the faux-stone pattern of the laminate countertop. Because—and he could be wrong, his mom said he was bad about only hearing things he wanted to, so he was sure he could also make the mistake of hearing things he _didn’t_ want to—it sounded a lot like Elliott had just placed a very concrete definition on their relationship. One that sounded like _not dating_ , except the fingers playing with his own—long and soft and slender, an artist’s fingers—were telling Sam something completely different.

 

_Mixed signals, mixed signals._

 

Poppy scoffed. “Sam’s not the type to do a random hookup, especially not with someone living in the same town as him. He didn’t have his first kiss until he was nineteen.”

 

If there had ever been a time Sam wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole, it was that precise moment. The _last_ thing he needed was Elliott knowing that Sam hadn’t even been kissed until he was nineteen. He had been closer to twenty than nineteen, and he wasn’t about to correct Poppy’s version of events. Sam was embarrassed enough.

 

Voice sounding distant and foreign to his ears, Sam corroborated Elliott’s story. “We’re not dating.” He unhooked his ankles from Elliott’s thighs and pulled his hand free. Nudging Elliott gently out of the way, Sam slid off the counter and slipped past the older man. He returned to the work on the counter, busying himself with scooping up a pile of lavender and dropping it carefully into the first jar. His hands were trembling.

 

Sam could practically feel Poppy radiating with the need to ask another question. It was like the atoms making Poppy _Poppy_ were vibrating at a more intense speed than usual, which was saying something because she was set to _go_ at all times. Sam kept his eyes locked on the task at hand. He finished putting the lavender in bottles and unscrewed the lid on the vinegar.

 

“So,” Poppy began.

 

“ _Poppy_ ,” Leah warned.

 

“What?” she blinked innocently. “A girl can’t walk in on her two best friends with their hands down each other’s pants and ask a couple of questions?”

 

“For what it’s worth,” Elliott said primly, “my hands were _not_ down Sam’s pants.”

 

Leah barked out laugh. “Right, because blowing him through his jeans is so much different.”

 

“Sam had enough ass in his hands for the both of you,” Poppy chimed in.

 

“Elliott’s got a great ass, but that’s beside the point,” Sam said loudly. “No one brings up the fact that you two are all over each other all the time; we’re polite enough to let you perform public breast exams on each other on a regular basis. Can we not mention this? Ever again?”

 

The three of them stood there and blinked at Sam as if he’d grown three heads. Sam wasn’t the type to snap. He wasn’t the type to curse at someone, to lash out or call a person out on their bullshit. He was supposed to be the first person in town you went to when something needed done. He was supposed to be the guaranteed smile you saw on your route to work every day, the person who answered any request with a grin and a nod. Sam was not someone who felt anxiety and insecurities because the people of Pelican Town thought that, in his world, those things did not exist.

 

They were so, so wrong.

 

Sam wanted Poppy and Leah to leave so he could ask Elliott just what the fuck was going on, but he knew he wouldn’t get the chance. He knew he didn’t want to hear the answer he was so afraid of hearing.

 

Elliott had made things twice as confusing as they were before. Sam wanted to talk to him. If they were just fooling around, just fucking, then he wanted to get it over with so he could nurse his wounds and move past whatever this was. He didn’t want to enjoy it or revel in the emotional connection he was quickly developing with Elliott; enjoyment and revelry only served to draw out Sam’s inevitable heartbreak.

 

After a few beats of uncomfortable silence, Elliott cleared his throat and said, “I should probably get going.” Poppy opened her mouth to say something, but the look Leah shot her instantly quieted whatever she was about to blurt. Elliott stepped past the two women and grabbed his shirt, slipping it on over his head. He turned to face Leah, hand outstretched and twisting the doorknob. “I’ll see you on Thursday for yoga, then?”

 

Leah’s shoulders were curled in, the arm not wrapped around Poppy was wrapped around her abdomen. She looked wilted, as did Poppy. “Yeah. Seven work okay for you?”

 

Elliott gave a quick nod and opened the door. “That sounds perfect. I’ll see you, Poppy. Sam.”

 

The shop door closed with a note of finality. Sam prided himself in not staring at Elliott’s retreating figure as he walked away from the shop, away from the farm, away from the kissing and the conversation and the decision he’d made without asking Sam first. Sam did not look up when he heard the door slam shut, when he knew Elliott was long gone from them, when he knew Poppy had come to stand just next to him. He kept his head down, jaw tight, and told himself that he was okay with hooking up.

 

Love did not exist, Sam thought to himself for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. It was getting harder and harder to remember that.

 

“Sam,” Poppy murmured, voice gentle.

 

Sam twisted the lid on another mason jar. He didn’t want to talk to Poppy about this. He didn’t want to talk about it period, not with anyone, because he’d been the one who was foolish enough to think that any amount of making out or touching could warrant more than a casual fling. He should have known. He hadn’t had a first kiss until he was nineteen; he hadn’t had what Elliott would consider a _proper_ first kiss until the night of the book reading. What little experience he had told him that a fling was just that. Nothing more, nothing less, no matter how badly he ached for the affection he couldn’t receive through the physical connection another body provided him.

 

No matter how badly he wanted all of those things from Elliott.

 

Elliott was smart. He was brilliant; he was fucking gorgeous. He could have anyone he wanted. No one had wanted Sam before, not for anything long term, so why would Elliott Walton be any exception?

 

Poppy’s small fingers touched Sam’s elbow. “Look at me?”

 

Sam swallowed hard past the lump of confusion and anxiety clawing at his throat. Set a jar of lavender vinegar back on the counter a little too forcefully. He raised his chin and turned to look Poppy in the eye.

 

“You’re—I would say you’re pissed, but I don’t think that’s it,” Poppy stated. She gnawed at her bottom lip. She looked miserable and worried sick, any trace of joy on her face long gone. “Leah and I know you well enough by now to know when something’s going on.”

 

“I’m okay, Pops. Honest.” He was pissed on top of everything else, sure, but beneath that were layers of confusion and regret and a sense of betrayal he didn’t feel completely entitled to. They had only kissed once before today. Elliott owed Sam nothing, much less any kind of relationship.

 

Leah, then. She came to stand close to Poppy. She didn’t touch Sam’s arm but she lingered there, near enough that Sam could sense the heat buzzing off her sweat-tacky skin. “The Sam we know and love would have had an obscure fact about Slash ready when we walked in. Something’s up.”

 

Sucking in a breath and deciding to take the plunge, Sam blurted, “I was—surprised, is all, when he said what he did.”

 

Sam knew it was stupid to be surprised over Elliott stating the obvious. They weren’t dating; an argument could be made that they weren’t even friends. A few conversations and interrupted kisses didn’t constitute friendship, much less a relationship. Elliott telling Poppy and Leah that they weren’t dating should have been a relief to Sam because they _weren’t_ , end of story. If he hadn’t specified that, assumptions would have been made.

 

Sam had a niggling suspicion that the reason he was so not okay with it was because there was a rather large part of him that enjoyed the thought of Poppy and Leah thinking they were dating. There was an even larger part of him that _wanted_ to date, but he was so terrified of Elliott not reciprocating that he absolutely refused to entertain the notion.

 

Poppy’s voice was gentle. “ _Are_ you dating?” she asked.

 

“No,” Sam sighed, “we’re really not. I just…” Misread the signals, he wanted to say. Yet… between the teasing and the laugher and the _I want to know you_ , hadn’t they made that perfectly clear? That whatever wonderful thing happening between them _wasn’t_ just hooking up? Sam had read the signs all wrong before, sure, but never so horribly. Never to this extent. How could he take some of the things Elliott had whispered to him the night of the book reading out of context?

 

Sam pushed the completed jars together in a clump and started on the next batch. “Could we just drop it, actually?”

 

Poppy sounded surprised. “Of course we can.” She backed away from Sam and started unwrapping another bundle of dried lavender. Leah pushed two smoothies their way and said something about going in for a shower; Poppy and Sam lapsed into silence once she was gone. The gap between them felt impossibly long and difficult to bridge; Sam sensed Poppy wanted to pursue the subject further and was struggling to respect Sam’s request to drop it. They were best friends. Sam was supposed to be telling Poppy these kinds of things, but he couldn’t bring himself to trust Poppy’s poor grasp on what confidentiality entailed. Sam knew that if she pressed, he would say things that would be repeated to Elliott - things he didn’t want him hearing secondhand.

 

Sam had willingly stepped off the cliff that was falling for Elliott Walton, and he was beginning to fear there was no soft landing in sight. Things—boundaries—needed to be discussed before Sam risked his heart any further.

 

They needed to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying what you've read, drop a comment & leave a kudos! We get SO EXCITED over every single comment you guys leave, seriously.
> 
> Thanks to everyone following along! This fic wouldn't be what it is without you :)
> 
> xoxo ohsocyanide


	8. Chapter 8

Sitting at his desk the next day watching the sunrise, Elliott was struck with something wholly unfamiliar - the feeling of having nothing to do. He was seated in front of his typewriter, awake and ready to start the day, but there was nothing right now that he actually _needed_ to be doing. His novel was finished. After three long years of beating his head against the wall, it was really finished. He would have more work to do later, of course, but for now his manuscript was in the hands of his editor. Elliott had no idea how long it would take for her to read through everything and make the necessary changes. The burden of work was off his shoulders for the moment.

 

Elliott didn’t truly realize it until now, but he had grown accustomed to waking up and immediately feeling guilty. Guilty that he had slept too late, guilty that he didn’t want to work on his novel, guilty about how much time he had spent away from writing the day before, guilty at how much he still had left to do. Even if he spent all day at work, he still went to bed feeling inescapably unaccomplished. There was always some passage that needed reworking or a character that needed further polishing. There was always more.

 

Except now there wasn’t. He had a whole day - and weeks after that - ahead of him with no obligations whatsoever, and it felt amazing. Elliott reached forward to push open the windows in front of his desk and sat with his head in his hands, enjoying the sound of the waves beyond his cabin crashing onto the shoreline. It was still quite early, and the sun was only just beginning to arc over the vaulted roof of the Fish Shop in the distance. The day would eventually become brutally hot, but for now Elliott knew that the sand and wind would still be relatively cool for at least a few hours. It would also be awhile before people started coming down to the water, which gave Elliott an idea.

 

He stood up and walked to his dresser, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out his silk housecoat. It was a flirty little thing - soft and lilac with patterns of orchids and magnolias wrapping around the fringes and the sleeves. Poppy had given it to him as a matching gift last winter, and he had grown admittedly attached to it since then. As he wrapped it around himself and tied it shut at his side, he looked over at the case sitting on his piano bench. It was the CD he had purchased at Sam’s show. He wanted to listen to it, if only to see whether or not Sam’s stage presence came across through a recording alone. Unfortunately, he didn’t own a CD player. He had known that when he bought the record the night of the concert, of course, but he had been too charmed after the show to not support Sam however he could. And if he was being honest, the idea of walking up to the stage after the show and getting Sam to sign something for him was too much like an old high school fantasy for Elliott to pass up. Granted, Sam didn’t take Elliott backstage and have his way with him in his dressing room like Elliott had always imagined it would go in high school, but that’s what his imagination was for. Although, given the way his relationship with Sam had progressed in the past few days, a fantasy like that might not necessarily need to remain hypothetical for much longer.

 

Tucking that away for another day, Elliott stepped into the kitchen and pulled his bubbling teapot from the stovetop. He grabbed two thermoses from the cupboard and dropped a tea bag into each one before filling them with the steaming water. His thermos received a generous portion of sugar while the other got a few dollops of honey. Tea in hand, Elliott padded towards the front door and slipped on his sandals before carefully getting the front door open and venturing outside.

 

The oceanfront was completely deserted as he suspected it would be. Townsfolk like Alex and Haley generally didn’t come out until at least midday when the sun was at its highest, but this was the time of day that made Elliott first fall in love with the ocean. It was this early, in fact, when he saw his soon-to-be cabin for the first time. He had taken a midnight bus into the valley from his hometown and arrived at dawn feeling fairly beaten down by exhaustion and frustration from his fruitless housing search. He had needed to move away from home, he knew that, but no property he’d looked at had charmed him enough to justify making that plunge. But he had known as soon as he stepped onto the beach that this is where he needed to be.

 

He was with Lewis that day, who had met him at the bus stop and offered to walk him to meet his real estate agent at the cabin. As the dirt path from the bridge turned into sand and the cabin came into view, Elliott felt his whole face light up. Lewis had turned to look at him and shot him with a knowing and prideful grin. “You love it, don’t you? I knew you would. You have Pelican Town written all over your face, I could see it as soon as you hopped off that bus.”

 

“You don’t say,” Elliott deadpanned.

 

“I _do_ say!” Lewis had insisted. “It’s not everyday that we get young people looking to move into the valley, so you’ll forgive me for being over-eager.”

 

“I turn thirty this fall. I’m not sure I count as young anymore.”

 

Lewis guffawed at that and clapped Elliott on the shoulder. “Son, if you’re old then I’m dead!”

 

Striding down the beach now, Elliott found himself shocked that he had ever lived anywhere else. There were things he would change about his life if he could, but taking up residence in the valley wasn’t one of them. He had found too much happiness here to ever regret _that_ decision.

 

Elliott stepped onto the pier and made his way closer to Willy’s shop; the gulls that were perched on the docks flew off as he approached, their squawking fading away as they flew higher and higher into the air. Willy was sitting on the edge of the pier watching the water, hands loosely holding his trusty fishing rod. If it was anyone else, Elliott might worry that their grip on the handle was too relaxed. He knew better than to doubt Willy, though. He knew what he was doing. As Elliott got closer he could hear the song that Willy was singing under his breath - it was an old sailor’s shanty about being tossed upon the waves during a storm. Willy had taught Elliott that particular tune after he had moved in, and Elliott still found himself whistling the melody on rainy days.

 

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Willy craned his head back to see who was walking up. When he saw Elliott he gave a wave and beckoned him over. “Morning, son,” he called out.

 

Elliott gestured with one of his thermoses before taking a seat on the dock near the old fisherman. “Good morning, Willy. Ginger tea with honey for you.”

 

Willy flashed Elliott with a toothy grin and reeled in his line before taking the drink. He uncapped the top and breathed in the steam deeply. “This is great. Thanks!”

 

“Ginger is good for the body as you’re fighting off a sickness. How are you feeling?”

 

“Now don’t you start again with fussing all over me, Elliott,” Willy chuckled. “I’m tougher than I look. A bit of sniffling isn’t going to do me in.”

 

Elliott frowned, but let Willy drink his tea without any more input.

 

Willy had only just gotten back from a fishing trip with some fishermen from a nearby town that had taken a week longer than expected. The men that he sailed with were all professionals, and they did most of the strenuous work themselves, but Elliott worried for Willy’s health all the same. He wasn’t getting any younger, and weather was unpredictable out on the open water. Willy had returned from this most recent trip from a particularly bad cold - apparently he had stayed out on the deck late one night and gotten caught in a nasty rainstorm.

 

“Mayor said that you read your book the other day,” Willy said.

 

“Only the first two chapters. It was nothing of note, really.”

 

“Well I’m sorry I missed it. I’m not much of a reader, but I’ll buy a copy off you all the same.”

 

“Thank you, but you know I wouldn’t accept your money for it. It would be my treat.”

 

“My pappy would roll over in his grave if he knew I took something without paying for it,” Willy grumbled. “I only accept gifts on my birthday and Winter Star. Everything else I pay back.”

 

Elliott cracked a wry smile as he watched a bright red fish breach the surface of the water before ducking back below out of sight. It seemed that a cold wasn’t enough to beat out Willy’s stubbornness.

 

“Well then you’re in luck,” Elliott said. “I actually came by with a small favor to ask you.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I’d like to make a call and my phone is beyond repair. Let me use yours and I’ll let you have a copy of my book for free. That seems equitable to me.”

 

Willy seemed to kick it around in his head for a bit before finally reaching into his pocket and tossing Elliott the keys to the Fish Shop. “You drive a hard bargain. Alright, son.”

 

Elliott smiled and swung his legs back onto the dock before hopping up. He brought his tea with him and walked to the front of the shop, leaving Willy looking out at the ocean. It took him a moment to find the right key for the lock, but then he was inside.

 

The shop smelled, unsurprisingly, like fish. After living so close to the ocean for years and spending more time with Willy, Elliott liked to think that he had grown numb to the smell. But in the shop, the stench was overwhelming. It wasn’t always this bad, but Willy had brought quite a haul back with him from the fishing trip. Better to get in and out quickly then, before the smell attached itself to his clothes and hair. The phone was next to Willy’s register, and Elliott brought the receiver up to his ear and dialed in the phone number that he now knew by heart. He popped the top off his thermos and took a sip while he waited for the call to go through.

 

It rang twice before someone picked up.

 

“Poppies and Posies. How can I help you?”

 

“Good morning, Leah. It’s Elliott.”

 

Leah’s business friendly voice dropped in an instant. “Oh, Elliott! Good morning! What’s up?”

 

“Well, I find myself with quite a clear schedule this morning. I was wondering if you’d like to come by the cabin and go for a swim? Like old times.”

 

“Oh wow, that sounds really nice actually. Let me grab my things and I’ll come right over.”

 

“Marvelous! But of course, if you’d prefer to come by another time-”

 

“No no, not at all. Now’s perfect.”

 

“You’re sure Poppy will be okay handling the shop on her own?”

 

“She did it without me for two seasons, Elliott. The place won’t burn down if I leave for a few hours.”

 

“Fair enough,” he said with a laugh.

 

“I’m glad we agree. See you soon!”

 

At hearing the line click dead, Elliott put the receiver down himself and circled around to the front of the shop. He left Willy's keys on the counter and went back outside, waving at the humming fisherman as he returned home.

 

*

 

Leah arrived at Elliott’s cabin twenty minutes later wearing a white cotton sundress with a towel tucked underneath her arm.

 

“Well this was a nice surprise,” she said as she greeted Elliott at the door with a kiss on the cheek.

 

Elliott grabbed a towel of his own and gestured for her to follow him outside. “Hello, Leah. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything too important this morning.”

 

“Not at all. Poppy was glad to have the house to herself, actually.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“She’s been outside harvesting sunflowers since dawn, and they’ve sort of taken over our living room. She’s trying to wrangle them into pomanders as we speak. And with me gone, she has more space to spread out.”

 

“Well I’m glad it worked out, then,” Elliott said.

 

The two walked in comfortable silence across the wooden bridge that led to the side beach past Elliott’s cabin. No one from Pelican Town ever explored this section of the beach other than him, Leah, and occasionally Poppy. Although Elliott only owned his cabin and not the area around it, the general consensus in town was that the side beach was an offshoot of Elliott’s property, and thereby was for his own use. Apparently that had been the arrangement with the cabin’s old owner, and it had stuck. Outside of festival nights, the area acted for all intents and purposes as Elliott’s own private cove. He and Leah used to come out to swim there quite frequently during his first year in the valley, before Leah was sucked into married life and Elliott became more and more consumed by his book.

 

Elliott watched Leah traipse ahead of him, hopping over bits of coral and cutting between tidal pools, and felt a wave of nostalgia. In those early days he and Leah used to be attached at the hip, so much so that rumors about them being lovers began swirling almost immediately. It had been too long since they had spent any time together on their own like this. Elliott loved Poppy dearly, but nobody understood him like Leah did.

 

Leah toed her sandals off and left them on the edge of a tidal pool, laying her towel out near the edge of the water. Elliott joined her in lying down. He stretched out, tucking his hands beneath his head and breathing in the cool salt air. He opened one eye to see that Leah was looking down at him with her head cocked.

 

“Yes?”

 

“How are things, Elliott? I feel like we haven’t talked about anything but your book lately.”

 

“Things are fine,” he said placidly. He knew that she was angling for information about Sam, but she would have to work for it. “How’s married life?”

 

“It’s good! You know, our anniversary is coming up next month.”

 

“It’s been a year already? That’s hard to believe.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Leah laughed. “I mean, I’ve been _married_ for a year. _Me._ I still can’t believe it sometimes.”

 

“Although to be fair, it’s also a bit hard to remember that there was ever a time when you and Poppy weren’t together.”

 

“That’s true too,” she said. “Relationships are weird like that. She asked me if we should adopt kids last week. Can you believe that?”

 

Elliott already knew that, in fact. Poppy had called him right afterwards. Still, he hadn’t had the chance to talk to Leah about it, and he hadn’t wanted to bring it up first.

 

“And how did that discussion go?”

 

Leah sighed and tossed a rock into the ocean. “It went fine. I said no, she said okay. We didn’t fight or anything. It’s just an awkward conversation to have.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I do, but I should probably figure out how I feel about it first,” she said. “You know that part of the reason I left Kel was because she was always pushing for kids.”

 

Elliott nodded and let her continue.

 

“So when Poppy asked I just said no out of instinct. But thinking about it...I don’t know. The idea of kids isn’t as scary for me if I think about raising them with her. She’d just be such a good mom.”

 

“So would you.”

 

Leah smiled down at him, nose crinkling. “Thanks. But yeah, I told her no for now and to ask me again in a few years. With Kel that would have been a whole fight. Crying, shouting, whatever. But Poppy just hugged me and said that I could have all the time I wanted. And then she asked what I wanted for dinner.”

 

“That sounds like her.".

 

“You know what else sounds like her?”

 

“What?”

 

“When I was on my way out to come meet you she said that if you don’t tell me exactly when you started sleeping around with Sam she’s disowning you.”

 

Elliott coughed in surprise and shot up, shaking the sand from his hair. “I already told you yesterday, Sam and I aren’t sleeping together.”

 

“Well you’re certainly cozier than either of us realized, so please tell me exactly what’s going on with you two.”

 

Digging his feet into the sand, Elliott pressed his mouth into a hard line and sighed before breaking down. Truth be told, he needed to talk to someone about Sam anyway.

 

“Yesterday was only the second time we kissed, so please understand that this is all incredibly new.”

 

“When was the first time?”

 

“After the book reading.” The look of shock on Leah’s face would have been amusing if Elliott wasn’t so embarrassed. “But that’s as far as we’ve gone.”

 

“Where did this even come from?” Leah asked, smiling in a dazed sort of way. “We didn’t even realize that you guys talked. I mean, Poppy said that she suspected something a few weeks ago but I just assumed it was her being an overactive matchmaker again.”

 

“I wish I had more to tell you, but that’s really the extent of it. We flirted for a couple weeks and now we’ve kissed twice. We’re hardly engaged.”

 

“Do you love him?”

 

“Yoba,” Elliott sputtered out. “I hardly know him.”

 

“But you like him? Are you trying to be in a relationship with him?”

 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I mean, of course I like him, I know that much. But I don’t know where anything is going from here. We haven’t spoken about it.”

 

“Well you should,” Leah said pointedly. “Soon.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because Sam’s got more baggage than you think he does. He doesn’t know what to do with commitment, and yesterday really freaked him out.”

 

Elliott grew quiet. He hadn't even considered that Sam had been hurt by the events of the day before. He had actually been proud of how he had handled the situation; he assumed that Sam, as someone miles out of Elliott’s league, would want to resist publicly labelling what was going on between them at all costs. The fact that he hadn’t told Poppy and Leah about their flirtation only served to prove that point. By firmly telling the two that he and Sam weren’t dating, Elliott thought that he had spared Sam the burden of having to let Elliott down later.

 

“Freaked him out in what way?” he asked cautiously.

 

“That’s something you should talk about with him. I’ll tell you right now that I’ve never met a person more scared of relationships than Sam. But he doesn’t do casual flings either, so whatever you two are up to isn’t anything he’s used to. You need to be careful with him, Elliott.”

 

Elliott thought about that, but he was quickly distracted as Leah stood up and pulled off her sundress before dropping her swimsuit bottoms around her ankles.

 

“Ah. Leah? What’s happening?”

 

“You said you wanted to go swimming ‘like old times,’” she said with a laugh, kicking her clothes a few feet away. “Or did you forget that this is how we used to swim?”

 

“I hadn’t forgotten, that’s just not what I meant when I asked you over.” Elliott looked towards the pier to make sure that Willy wasn’t out fishing. “I’d prefer if we didn’t, actually. I don’t want anyone to catch us.”

 

“Come on, Elliott. Has anyone ever caught us skinny dipping before?”

 

“Yes. On multiple occasions. I’ll never forget Lewis’ face when he walked past us swimming in the river outside your cottage.”

 

Leah laughed at that particular memory so hard that she almost started wheezing. “He still has trouble looking me in the eye,” she snickered. “I’m still going in, though.”

 

“And you were worried that married life would make you boring.”

 

Leah smirked and unclasped her top. “If Poppy was here she’d be stripping too, and you know it.”

 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Elliott smiled back.

 

Leah tossed her top in the pile with her dress and bottoms and sprinted towards the water, diving cleanly under a wave. When she came back up she waved at Elliott before turning to swim further out.

 

Elliott had truly been planning to go swimming like a normal beachgoer that morning. He certainly didn’t want any townsfolk on the other side of the beach catching a glimpse of him or Leah - the rumors about them sleeping together were bad enough when they were both single, but now she had a wife who would be affected by such gossip. Not that Poppy would ever entertain that as a serious thought. And it _had_ been some time since he had gone swimming like that. And if Leah was already naked, how much would his own modesty really save his reputation?

 

He left his trunks and robe on the shore and eased his way into the water.

 

Leah laughed as she saw him swimming up. “Nice to see you’ve decided to have some fun today.”

 

“You’re a horrible influence, you know.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

*

 

Hours later, Leah still hadn’t left. Elliott was reading in bed as she stretched out on the floor, napping in the sunlight. It was a singularly peaceful moment, and Elliott himself was almost tempted to put his book away and go to sleep too, but it was then that there was suddenly heavy knocking at the door. It was loud enough to rouse Leah from sleep and sounded so insistent that Elliott rushed to answer it without checking who it was first. Most likely Poppy coming to fetch Leah, he thought. Or one of the town’s children on a field trip with Penny coming by to ask if he was a merman again.

 

Opening the door, he was surprised to see Sam standing in front of him with hands balled up into fists at his side, looking fidgety and uncomfortable. He was clearly troubled by something, but Elliott found himself smiling at him all the same. After Elliott’s abrupt departure in the flower shop yesterday and his talk with Leah this morning, he had been aching to speak to the younger man all day.

 

“Hello, Sam,” he said, his hand still resting on the doorknob. “What brings you here?”

 

A look of confusion flashed across Sam’s face at the question. Elliott watched with interest as he broke off eye contact. “Oh,” he said finally. “I didn’t really think of a reason. I just - I guess I just wanted to see you. And talk. Is that weird?”

 

Elliott felt a pleasant warmth spread across his chest at the idea of Sam coming to see him just for the sake of seeing him. Largely because he had wanted to see Sam too, only he hadn’t had the confidence to call and ask him to come over.

 

Sam shifted in the sand. “Sorry, it’s definitely weird to come by without asking. You’re busy. I can go if you want.” He seemed on track to keep stammering out apologies, but he quieted when Elliott stepped outside and pulled him into a hug.

 

Elliott didn’t have a good enough understanding of the boundaries of his relationship with Sam to know if this sort of gesture was okay, but he was moving by instinct.

 

“No, I’m glad to see you,” he said. Sam seemed to soften under Elliott’s touch, and he brought his arms around Elliott’s waist in response. Sam’s face was buried in the crook of Elliott’s neck, hot breaths sending tingles along his skin. Elliott took a slight step back after a few moments, still held close by Sam’s arms, and pressed their foreheads together. “You can come visit whenever you’d like.”

 

Sam looked at him with an inscrutable expression before tipping his head up to catch Elliott’s mouth in a kiss. Like the first time that they had kissed, Elliott was completely thrown off by Sam’s brazenness. If Leah was to be believed, Sam was currently struggling with just what he wanted from Elliott and how far he wanted things to go, and yet here he was kissing him in broad daylight for anyone to walk by and see.

 

Sam seemed to realize that at the same moment Elliott did and quickly broke it off, pulling his arms back from Elliott’s waist as if he’d been stung and whipping his head around to see if anyone was watching. When he saw that the beach was empty he turned back to Elliott, face flushed.

 

The feeling of a hand on his shoulder almost made Elliott jump before he remembered that he wasn’t, in fact, alone. Leah stood behind him looking amused. “Hey Sam,” she grinned.

 

“Leah!” Sam exclaimed as he took a step back. He looked like he wanted the sand under his feet to swallow him alive. “I didn’t know you were here.”

 

“Oh don’t mind me. I was just on my way out,” she said, brushing past the two of them with a yawn. “Thanks for the swim, Elliott.”

 

“Are you sure you want to go?” Elliott asked. He wanted to be alone with Sam, and he expected that Leah knew that, but he still didn’t want to be rude.

 

“Positive,” she sang back. “I miss my wife. I’ll see you boys later.”

 

Elliott and Sam watched her walk away until she turned off the beach and out of sight. Once she was gone Sam ducked past Elliott, grabbing his hand as he did so. Elliott’s heart skipped a beat as he was led into his own house and closed the door behind him.

 

He didn’t have the chance to say anything before Sam was cupping his face with his free hand and pressing him against the door. Elliott instinctively went to Sam’s waist to pull him closer, and for a moment it felt like they were real lovers who had just come home to each other for the first time in weeks. It felt sweet and unreserved and natural, and it wasn’t until Sam pulled away that Elliott remembered where he was.

 

“Sorry,” Sam said gently, pressing his forehead to Elliott’s. “I just...like kissing you.”

 

Elliott could have cried at the sweetness of it all. He rubbed at Sam’s cheek fondly. “The feeling’s mutual, I promise.”

 

Sam stilled at that and took a step back, his face hardening slightly. “Is it?”

 

The question confused Elliott, who racked his brain to try and understand what he had said wrong. “Of course it is,” he answered.

 

Sam kept looking at Elliott like there was more he wanted to say. He was clearly working through some variety of conflicting feelings, and there wasn’t much Elliott could do to assuage him. “I’m not trying to be rude,” he said. “It’s just that yesterday was really weird and I don’t exactly know what to think about it. Or any of this, I guess.”

 

Elliott took a step towards him. “I really am sorry for yesterday. It was inappropriate to try to kiss you at work, but I couldn’t help myself.”

 

“You just left me there. And you didn’t call me or anything after.”

 

“I didn’t realize you wanted me to call,” Elliott said numbly. In truth, he had dialed Sam’s number multiple times after he got home yesterday before losing his nerve and deleting it. That was why his phone was dead today, in fact - he had drained the battery reading over his texts with Sam from after the book reading and going back and forth over whether or not to call. His charger was hanging on by a thread and he couldn’t get a charge out of it after that. Still, that was no real excuse. It was true that he had opted to give Sam his space.

 

“I don’t really know what I wanted,” Sam admitted. “I don’t really know what _you_ want either. I’m just confused.”

 

“I am as well, if that helps.”

 

“It doesn’t,” Sam said with a laugh. “Shouldn’t you know what’s going on, though? You’re the expert on romance here.”

 

“I think you’re overestimating my understanding of romance,” Elliott smiled. “I’m quite hopeless with it, myself.”

 

Sam smiled back, and Elliott was glad that at least he didn’t seem angry. He hardly seemed at ease, but this was a talk they needed to have sooner than later anyway. Elliott would just have to stumble through it to the best of his ability.

 

Elliott took another step towards Sam and looked down at the space between them. “Did you realize that you were still holding my hand?”

 

Suddenly aware that he hadn’t let go of Elliott since walking inside the cabin, Sam blushed and dropped his hand. “Sorry.”

 

“I don’t remember saying I disliked it.” Elliott gestured towards the bed on the other end of the room. “Would you like to sit? I’m happy to talk to you about yesterday or anything else, but we might as well be comfortable..”

 

“Sure.”

 

Elliott led Sam to the bed and sat next to him, watching his face. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out, looking at everything but Elliott.

 

“So yesterday,” Sam said finally. “And the night before that. I really liked it. I don’t exactly know what this is or why you’re even interested in spending time with me all of a sudden, but...it’s nice. And I don’t know what to do about that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I don’t _do_ stuff like this, okay? I don’t just go around making out with people. I don’t have any experience with anything, not like Seb or Abigail. So I’m just totally lost here.”

 

Elliott wished he had something to say that would calm Sam’s nerves, but everything that came to mind would probably just make things worse. Leah’s advice from this morning played in his memory again. _He’s got more baggage than you think he does. He doesn’t know what to do with commitment._ How could Elliott tell Sam, then, that he was already nursing undeniable feelings for him? That he would publicly date Sam without any hesitation if that’s what he wanted, doubts about his own self worth be damned?

 

Sam looked up at Elliott searchingly. “Am I making sense?”

 

“Absolutely. I’m sorry if anything I’ve done has made you feel more confused. I’m simply trying to follow your lead with all this, to be honest.”

 

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” Sam laughed.

 

“Well you’re the one that kissed me first,” Elliott said. His eyes drifted over to the piano bench where it had all happened just two nights ago. “I assumed you knew what you wanted.”

 

Sam’s voice was quiet and unsure. “Well what do you want?”

 

Elliott turned to look at Sam and held his chin lightly, angling it up so that he could press a soft kiss to Sam’s lips. “I want to be able to do that more often,” he murmured.

 

Sam’s eyes had fluttered shut at the kiss, and he opened them slowly when Elliott pulled away. “I want that too.”

 

In other circumstances, Elliott would have told Sam his feelings then and there. He would have said that he had been enamored with him for a month and that being kissed by him had awoken in Elliott a tenderness and warmth that he hadn’t felt in years. But now he understood that something like that would just scare him away. If two kisses were enough to send Sam reeling, a declaration of affection would undoubtedly be too much. So Elliott pushed those feelings down and tried his best to temper his expectations. If Sam was too scared to do anything beyond hook up, then Elliott would be that for him. He would be whatever Sam wanted.

 

“Well then,” Elliott said, “let’s just start with that. I don’t know that much about you, Sam, but I want to. I like being here with you like this. I don’t need anything more than that.”

 

_For now, at least._

 

Sam leaned back on the bed and regarded Elliott intently. “Okay. I like this too. Let’s just go with it, then.”

 

Elliott wanted to keep talking about Sam’s feelings - how the first kiss had affected him, what had happened after the flower shop yesterday, who he had told. But that was likely to overwhelm him. So he asked something else.

 

“You said that you don’t have any experience.”

 

Sam’s eyes were glued to the floor. “Yeah, I did.”

 

“What exactly does that mean, then? Not to pry, but I’m just curious. You’ve been in relationships before, yes?”

 

“No.”

 

Elliott frowned. That made absolutely no sense. How could Sam have gotten this far in life without ever dating anyone? He was talented and gorgeous and kind, and it was practically a crime that no one had ever made him feel that way.

 

“Well you’ve kissed someone before me at least. Poppy mentioned that.”

 

“Listen, I’ve had sex before if that’s what you’re trying to ask,” Sam said curtly.

 

“Alright. I’m sorry for being intrusive.”

 

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that I, uh - I didn’t like it.”

 

Elliott felt that he was treading on thin ice with this conversation, but he was morbidly curious. “Why not?”

 

Sam still refused to look at him. “Every time I did it was with strangers. Just girls at shows who didn’t want my number or anything after. We would hook up in the van and then that was it. Never saw them again.”

 

Elliott’s heart broke at that, but another part of what Sam had said caught his attention as well. “So you’ve only been with women, then?”

 

“Yeah. Is that...an issue for you?”

 

“Of course not,” Elliott said quickly. “I’m simply shocked that you’ve never been given the chance to really stretch out and discover what you like. I’m assuming that the entire concept of seduction is completely foreign to you. Going slow, finding pleasure without ever having sex itself.”

 

Sam blushed, but looked at Elliott with hungry eyes. “I guess so.”

 

Elliott placed a hand on Sam’s knee before leaning forward and asking, “Would you like to know how it feels?”

 

The air felt unbearably still as that question hung in the air, and Elliott watched Sam’s face for any indication that he didn’t like where this was headed. He didn’t see it, though. Sam simply nodded slowly and licked his lips.

 

“Then let me take off your clothes.”

 

Sam nodded again and reached out for Elliott’s hand on his knee. He held it in his for a moment before guiding Elliott up his leg and to the waistband of his jeans. Elliott kept his hand there but got off the bed so that he could kneel in front of Sam and have better access. He brought his other hand up as well and gave Sam a small smile before he began to undress him. In the silence of the cabin, the sound of the metal buckle of Sam’s belt being undone felt nearly obscene. Elliott unfastened it quickly enough and brought his hand all around Sam’s waist to guide the leather belt painstakingly out of each loop. He placed it on the floor when he was done and pressed a quick kiss to Sam’s cheek before continuing on.

 

He tried to keep his hands as steady as possible as he undid each button on Sam’s jeans before pulling the zipper down, his fingers less than an inch away from the soft cotton of Sam’s boxers as he did so. Sam scooted forward on the bed so that Elliott could pull his jeans down, and when they were off his legs and on the floor Elliott looked up to see Sam smiling like he’d just heard something hilarious.

 

“Did I miss something?” Elliott asked.

 

“No,” Sam said, laughter nevertheless playing at the edge of his voice. “It’s just nice to see you returning the favor.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Nothing, I’ll tell you later.” Sam’s expression dropped at that, his eyes shifting down to his underwear and the erection that was already straining against the fabric. “Keep going. Please.”

 

Elliott’s fingers were on the hem of Sam’s shirt now, and he motioned for him to hold his arms up. Elliott took his time pulling it up and over Sam’s head, letting the tension build in an almost tortuous way. Sam had never known this before - the feeling of anticipation and a slow build. Elliott wanted him to drink that feeling in.

 

With Sam’s shirt off, Elliott found himself unable to decide where exactly he wanted to look. He found everything about Sam’s body mesmerizing: the soft blonde hairs that peppered his stomach below the belly button, the taut, lean muscles along his arms, the pink of his nipples. Elliott wanted to write a poem about it all. He took in the sight of Sam sitting in front of him in nothing but his boxers and could scarcely believe that this was really happening. That Sam was here and hard and willing and _asking_ for Elliott’s touch. It was far more than Elliott felt he deserved, but he was done with questioning the good things that came to him.

 

He stood up and returned to the bed, going to sit on the other end with his back against the headboard. He stretched his legs out and patted the space between them. “Come sit here,” he said.

 

“I want to be facing you,” Sam murmured.

 

“That’s fine.”

 

Sam crawled over and straddled Elliott’s lap. “Um, what do you want me to do?” he asked softly.

 

Elliott wrapped his arms around Sam, running his hands up the bare skin of his back. He leaned forward and brought his mouth to Sam’s ear. “You don’t need to do anything,” he said, smiling at the small shudder that he felt run up Sam’s body. “Just enjoy this and let me know if you want me to stop.”

 

“Okay,” Sam whispered.

 

Elliott remained where he was and dropped his eyes to look at the smooth expanse of Sam’s skin. He was still freckled and tan from the summer, and heat seemed to be radiating off him in waves. Elliott slid one of his hands farther up Sam’s back until he was cupping the nape of his neck. Gently, slowly, Elliott let his tongue trace the curve of Sam’s ear, pressing soft kisses at the base before sucking at his earlobe. He did a few rounds of this, all the while running the edge of his fingernails up and down Sam’s back in a lazy loop.

 

Sam’s breathing was becoming shakier, but he was still keeping quiet. Despite this, Elliott had learned the night of the book reading that the younger man possessed a charming ability to be quite vocal when he wanted to be. It had been unexpected, but very welcome. As a writer, Elliott was always looking for positive feedback. And he was now on a mission to coax those sounds back out of Sam however he could.

 

Elliott began to kiss his way down the side of Sam’s neck, sucking lightly as he did so. Each one of those earned him a small gasp from Sam, who brought his hands up to clasp at the opening of Elliott’s robe. The two were close enough that Elliott could feel Sam’s erection brushing against his stomach whenever Sam shifted his body. He wanted desperately to jerk Sam’s boxers down and touch him there now; Elliott distinctly remembered how easy he was to please back when he was young and didn’t have any experience. It probably wouldn’t take Sam long at all to get the release he was hoping for. But that’s exactly why Elliott wanted to be patient with it. Sam deserved better than what he had gotten in the past - hurried quickies in the back of a van and fevered kisses in the flower shop before someone came back. Sam deserved someone who cared about him enough to want to take their time. Elliott was more than prepared to be that person.

 

Elliott’s mouth was at Sam’s shoulder now, and he ran the flat of his tongue from the end of it to the spot where Sam’s neck met his collarbone. He let his kisses become sloppier as he brought one of his hands back to Sam’s front again. He stilled his mouth for a moment so that Sam could fully focus on what his hands were doing.

 

He had just barely hinted at doing this in the flower shop, but Sam’s physical reaction to it had driven Elliott nearly crazy. If anything was going to get Sam making noise it was going to be this, he thought. So without saying a word, Elliott drew his hand up to tease at Sam’s left nipple. Sam’s breath hitched, and Elliott finally got the moan he was looking for. He brought his other hand around from Sam’s back and did the same motion to his other nipple, rolling both under his thumbs. Sam jolted forward, biting into Elliott’s shoulder to muffle his groans.

 

“You don’t need to do that, you know,” Elliott told him, voice low and rough. “I want to hear you.”

 

“I just-” Sam stuttered out. “It - _fuck_ \- it feels good.”

 

“It’s supposed to. Now tell me if this feels better.”

 

Elliott tipped Sam back ever so slightly, exposing his chest more fully. Elliott ducked his head down and placed his open mouth right above Sam’s left pectoral. Sam immediately arched his back in anticipation, but Elliott refused to rush. He kissed his way to the spot just above the erect peak of Sam’s left nipple but didn’t touch it yet. Instead he elected to gently blow over it, puffing cool air in a way that left Sam clutching at Elliott’s robe even tighter.

 

Finally, Elliott decided that Sam had waited enough. He wrapped his mouth around Sam’s nipple and gave it a tentative suck. The cry that escaped Sam’s lips was a sweeter sound than anything Elliott had heard in his entire life.

 

Elliott let his tongue run deliberate circles around it, getting lost in the sound of Sam’s increasingly loud moaning. He realized that he could easily get addicted to this - committing every inch of Sam’s body to memory and learning just what made him tick. He sucked at Sam’s nipple again and brought his other hand down to just barely touch the outline of Sam’s erection through his boxers before pulling back. Patience.

 

Elliott broke his mouth away from Sam’s chest to bring it back to his neck, licking and biting up the side and along his jawline. For all of Sam’s composure when Elliott had been going slow, he seemed to be falling apart at Elliott’s growing intensity. When Elliott started to tease at his nipples again, Sam dropped his head back down to Elliott’s shoulder, trying his best to sit still and let Elliott work uninterrupted.

 

Eventually the build-up became too much, however, and when Elliott opened his eyes he saw that Sam was in the process of palming his own erection over his boxers. Elliott could sympathize. He was painfully hard now himself, and he very well understood the need for friction and pressure and pleasure that Sam was currently suffering from. Although now, Elliott couldn’t care less about getting his own release. All he cared about right now was Sam.

 

He grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled him into a kiss, tongue greedily parting his lips. “Let me do that for you,” he said against Sam’s mouth.

 

“You don’t have to,” Sam replied hastily, although the look in his eyes was pleading Elliott to keep going.

 

Elliott sucked at Sam’s bottom lip and dragged his nail lightly over Sam’s nipple before responding. “I know I don’t have to. But I want to. Do _you_ want me to, Sam?”

 

Sam let out a shaky breath before kissing Elliott again. He guided Elliott’s hand down to his tented cock, shuddering as Elliott’s fingers ran the length of it. “Please,” he whispered.

 

Elliott kissed Sam once more before reaching out and fumbling open the drawer of his bedside table. He pushed aside the comb and keys and various junk that had collected there before finally finding what he was looking for - a small, clear jar with coconut oil inside. This, other than books, was Elliott’s one indulgence. He liked to rub it into his skin and hair in the evening, but now it had a better use.

 

Sam watched silently as Elliott scooped out some of the oil and warmed it between his palms. Eyes wide, he pulled the waistband of his boxers down and took out his cock. Elliott moaned at the mere sight of it.

 

And then, with all the care he could muster, Elliott took Sam in his hand. At the first touch, Sam bit his lip and threw his head back, breathing in sharply. Elliott took the opportunity to lick up Sam’s throat as his hand, slick with oil, worked up and down Sam’s shaft. He stopped his tongue over Sam’s Adam’s apple and spoke softly against his skin.

 

“I don’t know how I’ve gone this long without touching you like this. Do you realize how beautiful you are?”

 

Sam started to say something in response, but the words were lost as Elliott’s thumb swooped over the head of his cock. He brought his arms up and over Elliott’s shoulders and wrapped them around his neck. Elliott began to pump up and down in a more steady rhythm. He wanted Sam to talk to him, to tell him exactly how he was feeling. But the younger man seemed absolutely beyond words at this point, which was a compliment in and of itself, he supposed. Still, Elliott didn’t have that problem.

 

“I meant what I said before, Sam,” he whispered, sucking at Sam’s ear again. “I want to know you. I want to know exactly how to please you.”

 

“Holy fuck,” Sam whimpered, arms tightening around Elliott’s neck. His hips bucked up as he began to pump into Elliott’s hand erratically. “Keep talking, please.”

 

Elliott smiled against Sam’s skin, the taste of sweat salty on his lips. “Is that what you like? Hearing me talk? Do you like this too?” He brought his free hand up to skirt over Sam’s nipple, thoroughly enjoying the spasm that ran through Sam’s body as he did so. Elliott hummed contentedly. “It seems that you do.”

 

Sam moaned again and he took one arm away to tug open Elliott’s robe, exposing his skin from his neck to his stomach. He placed his hand on Elliott’s bare chest and crashed their mouths back together. Sam whined into Elliott as he rolled his hips faster, chasing a harder touch. Elliott gripped Sam’s cock tighter and started to twist his hand in a corkscrew motion, the oil slippery and warm.

 

“Elliott,” he gasped out. “I - I can’t..”

 

“Are you close?” Elliott asked. He could hardly recognize his own voice, it was so low and cobbled with lust. “It’s fine if you are. You can come for me.”

 

Sam’s eyes were screwed shut, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. He looked like he wouldn’t last another minute. Elliott flicked his tongue out to lick Sam’s lips, and then Sam was falling forward, pressing their foreheads together as he came onto Elliott’s stomach and chest. Some of it inevitably got onto Elliott’s robe and trickled down to his underwear, but he didn’t care. He would gladly let Sam ruin every piece of clothing he owned if it meant they got to do this again.

 

After a few moments of sitting in the afterglow, Elliott reached into his bedside drawer again and pulled out some napkins, silently dabbing Sam’s semen off of them both. Sam flinched when Elliott brought the napkin over to wipe gently at his cock, but he didn’t say anything. When he was done, Elliott craned his head up to look at Sam, who was still straddling his lap. More than anything, he just looked drained.

 

Elliott shifted his body up and kissed Sam lightly. “You should lie down,” he said. “I’ll get us some water.”

 

Sam nodded and shuffled off Elliott before grabbing a pillow and lying on his back. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled his boxers back up. Elliott let his eyes linger on Sam for another moment before getting up and walking to the kitchen. Between his sore legs from having Sam sitting on him and his own ignored erection, Elliott found moving around to be a slightly awkward affair. Still, he quickly grabbed two glasses and filled them with ice water before returning to the bed.

 

Sam was sweaty and flushed and _beautiful_ as he laid there, looking up at Elliott with expectant eyes. He propped up on his elbow to take his glass and ran his eyes over Elliott’s body as he drank deeply. “Sorry about your robe.”

 

“It’s quite alright,” Elliott said with a soft chuckle. “I can wash it.”

 

“You might as well take it off though. You know, for now. Until it’s clean.”

 

Elliott smiled and slipped the robe off, letting it fall to the floor. He gulped his water down and returned to bed, lying next to Sam. He looked up at the ceiling and reached out to hold his hand.  “Come let me hold you,” he said finally, lacing their fingers together.

 

Sam immediately rolled over and rested his head on Elliott’s chest, arm wrapped around his waist. Elliott’s free hand found its way into Sam’s hair, and he scratched aimlessly along his scalp and the back of his neck.

 

Sam spoke up after a few minutes, flexing his fingers against Elliott’s. “Do you mind if we just stay like this for a bit?”

 

“You can stay as long as you like, Sam,” Elliott said softly. “Would you like to sleep for a while?”

 

“Yeah, actually.” Sam nuzzled closer against Elliott, face pressed into his skin. “Thanks.”

 

The two drifted off quickly, with Elliott feeling more at peace than he had in years.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this is a day late but just ignore that!
> 
> on another note, ohsocyanide and I have been so humbled by the reception this little rarepair fic has gotten, so thanks to everyone who comments and leaves kudos and feedback. we really love it! We are so excited to start hitting this point in the narrative & Sam and Elliott’s relationship, and we hope you all love where we’re going with it as much as we do
> 
> -mercymain


	9. Chapter 9

“You’re going to put me to sleep if you keep that up, you know.”

 

“Hm?” Sam paused, fingers tangled halfway through the steady circuit they’d been traveling through Elliott’s hair. He’d made a game of it: massaging Elliott’s scalp lightly before tugging down, fingers playing with the silky tresses as he trailed from root to tip. Sam liked the noises Elliott made while Sam played with his hair almost as much as he liked the noises Elliott had been making just moments prior to what had been their second nap of the day.

 

Elliott closed his book and stuck the tip of his index finger between the pages to save his place. He propped himself up on his elbow and raised a brow at Sam. The place on Sam’s chest where Elliott had previously rested his cheek felt oddly bereft without the comfortable weight of Elliott’s body pressed against him; Sam reached a hand out and toyed with the soft ends of Elliott’s hair.

 

Elliott leaned into the touch slightly and sighed. “Playing with my hair,” he murmured. “You know—” he promptly stopped, realizing. Sam _didn’t_ know what got Elliott off, not really, not when Elliott had done everything in his power to keep Sam’s fingers from straying too far below the belt all afternoon. He corrected himself. “You should know that I have a bit of a weakness when it comes to my hair.”

 

Sam’s mouth quirked into a playful grin; he wound his fingers tighter in Elliott’s hair and tugged him forward slightly. “Yeah?”

 

Elliott made a soft noise in the back of his throat when Sam tightened his grip; Sam watched, pleased, as the muscles in his throat worked. “I like it,” he admitted quietly. “That doesn’t bother you?”

 

Sam blinked in surprise. He had a feeling Elliott enjoyed the hair pulling quite a bit, but he wasn’t exactly an expert on kinks aside from what little personal experience he had. He knew he liked Elliott’s hair, and his beard, and basically every other part of Elliott’s anatomy he could think of. Sam was pretty sure he had an Elliott kink, but he wasn’t about to admit that fact aloud. Sam figured he was liable to scare the older man off if he came on too strong, and he enjoyed fooling around too much to risk that.

 

He enjoyed Elliott’s presence too much to risk that, honestly.

 

“Of course not,” Sam managed. He wanted to say _that’s really fucking hot, actually_ , but he wasn’t sure that specific adjective did an adequate job of describing Elliott. Instead, he tugged even harder, hard enough that Elliott’s head tipped back to expose the creamy expanse of skin on his neck, and he ducked his head down and nipped his teeth across the pulse pounding at the crevice between jaw and neck.

 

The effect was immediate.

 

Elliott let out a groan, voice rough from use and sleep-sticky from their nap; in the next breath, Sam was on his back with his hands pinned above his head. Elliott’s hair fell in a sheet around Sam, staining his world the same soft red-brown color as the locks. Sam struggled, craned his neck to press a kiss to Elliott’s mouth, but he held his face just barely out of reach. Elliott maintained a careful distance between their bodies, but Sam could still feel the neglected head of Elliott’s erection pressing into his thigh.

 

Sam licked his lips. “I could—” he paused, seeking out the right words “—take care of that for you, if you wanted.”

 

“Sam,” Elliott murmured, eyes watching his mouth. “I want that very much. But—”

 

“Of course there’s a but,” Sam muttered, rolling his hips into Elliott’s. Sam couldn’t possibly be hard, not after Elliott had made him come twice with both his hands and his mouth, but his refractory period was shaping up to be startlingly short. He rutted his hips into Elliott’s again because he liked the way it looked when Elliott’s eyelids fluttered closed, the way the small line appeared between his brows—as if he were seriously considering a round three and letting Sam finally touch him this time.

 

One of Elliott’s hands disappeared from beside Sam’s head to press his waist firmly into the mattress. “ _But_ , today wasn’t about me.” Elliott’s gaze darkened; he dropped his mouth to Sam’s ear. “Don’t you like the idea of me touching myself later, thinking of you, surrounded by your scent? Would that be something worth screenshotting? Isn’t that what it’s called?”

 

Sam couldn’t think past the idea of Elliott Walton wanting him, much less fucking into his own hand at the thought of what he had done to Sam’s body over the duration of the afternoon. The mere mention of Elliott touching himself, capturing it on video while he did it and sending it to Sam, was enough to make precome leak from the tip of Sam’s abused cock.

 

“Yeah,” Sam breathed.

 

Teeth at Sam’s lobe, the ghost of a tongue tracing along the shell of his ear. “This may be terribly forward of me… but were you planning on staying the night?” Elliott shifted, sitting up to study Sam’s reaction.

 

Something about the question made Sam get the horrible sense that, as a hookup, he’d overstayed his welcome. He had been on the listening end of Sebastian’s postcoital monologues long enough to know that it drove Sebastian fucking batty anytime a girl stayed too long, expected too much, or acted needy in general. Had Sam done that? Was Elliott only asking him because he wanted him gone? Sure, he wasn’t an asshole like Sebastian so it wasn’t likely he would kick Sam out once he’d had his fill of him, but…

 

Sam felt flayed open and raw, like Elliott had sliced him down the middle, rearranged his insides, and left him to stitch up the remaining mess. He was out, all over the place, all for Elliott to see. He felt drunk on Elliott’s hands and hips, the sweet taste of his tongue and the scent of the coconut oil lingering on his lover’s hands. He was too caught up in feelings and emotions and desires he had no right to be caught up in. Here, lying splayed open on Elliott’s bed, he had nowhere—nothing—to hide.

 

That thought alone was jarring.

 

Every other hookup of Sam’s had been in the back of the van. The girls had left almost immediately after; what was Sam still doing here? Waiting for Elliott to ask him on a date?

 

Sam was, in this situation, like one of the many girls Sebastian had brought home: fooling around with Elliott, entertaining the notion that he would ever, under any circumstances, be interested in more than a quick fuck. Sam kicked himself once more because he’d not gotten so much as a hand on Elliott’s lower half, much less actually _fucked_ him. How shitty of a hookup could he be?

 

Elliott cocked his head and smiled, white teeth brilliant against the backdrop of his beard. “Penny for your thoughts?”

 

Sam sat up. “It’s nothing. Just—” he pressed a kiss to Elliott’s mouth, quick and chaste because if this was a hookup, he didn't want their last kiss to be messy and half-forgotten in a haze of lust. Sam pushed off the mattress. He began the search for his clothes—belt woven in thoughtful loops just beside the bed, shirt caught over the headboard, jeans tossed haphazardly near the bathroom floor, socks nowhere to be found. The cabin was poorly lit, save for the candle burning by the bed and the uneasy evening sun flickering in through the open window; he finally found his socks beneath the nightstand.

 

Sam dropped back to the bed and shook his jeans out before sticking his legs in and shimmying them up past his calves.

 

“Hey,” Elliott said.

 

Sam stood again and tugged his jeans past his thighs and buttoned them. He did the zip and began sliding the belt through the loops. If he tried hard enough, he could still feel Elliott’s fingers tugging deftly at the worn leather, see the way his slender hands coiled the belt neatly before placing it on the floor.

 

He’d spent the last month waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop, and here it was. Elliott had gotten Sam off—Sam hadn’t returned the favor, for fuck’s sake, he couldn’t even get _that_ right—and now Sam was leaving.

 

It stung just as badly to be on this side of a hookup as it did to be on the side he’d previously occupied, the side where he stayed and watched his partner’s retreating figure meld into a crowd once more.

 

“Hey,” Elliott murmured again, all long limbs and graceful angles as he climbed from the bed. He nudged Sam’s hands out of the way and took over looping Sam’s belt through the holes. He fitted the tail end of the belt through the buckle and tightened it into place. “We’re okay?”

 

Sam forced a smile that didn’t entirely reach his eyes and nodded. “Course we are. Why wouldn’t we be?”

 

Elliott put the shirt right-side out and, stretching the neck slightly, fitted it down over Sam’s head. Sam shoved his arms through the holes and reached for his socks.

 

“If I were to guess, it feels like you’re pulling away from me,” Elliott responded. He poked his head into the closet and pulled a clean shirt off the rack. This one had Edgar Allan Poe on it and said _I’m Just a Poe Boy from a Poe Family_ transcribed across the bottom.  “I’m not always great at reading you though, so I could be completely off-kilter.”

 

Sam didn’t want to mention his inexperience again, not so soon after their previous discussion. He had no experience with men, much less a man like Elliott, and the only experience he had ever been able to count on in a hookup was the end. The ending, the inevitable separation, was the only part of a coupling Sam had come to count on.

 

Why would this be any different?

 

Sam’s voice was low, embarrassed. “I’m not pulling away; I’m leaving.”

 

“Is there a difference?”

 

Sam paused halfway through knotting his shoelaces. He glanced up through his eyelashes; Elliott stood with his hair sex-tousled and his hands propped on his slender hips. He seemed oddly out of character standing there in nothing but an Edgar Allan Poe t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. He looked, for all intents and purposes, both unsure and scared attempting to navigate their current conversation. He looked like he cared.

 

Sam decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

“I think I’m freaking myself out a little,” Sam admitted, breath whooshing out of his chest in a rush of words. “I just—you’re gorgeous and brilliant, and I want to do this again. I’ve never had that, and I’ve never had someone who reciprocated. I’m sorry,” he added.

 

Elliott stepped between Sam’s knees and pressed his fingers lightly below Sam’s chin, tipping his head up so Sam was looking directly at Elliott. His gaze was soft, a little pained. He ghosted the pad of his thumb across Sam’s lower lip. “You are so lovely, Sam. I don’t know how anyone has ever walked away from you before.”

 

“S’easy,” Sam mumbled. “People do it all the time.”

 

Elliott frowned slightly. “You do know that’s not the way it’s supposed to work, right? If you’re freaking yourself out, how can I help? Is there anything I can do?”

 

“Treating me like shit and kicking me out of the cabin would probably be a start,” Sam joked. “Think you could manage that?”

 

Elliott ducked down and gave Sam a quick kiss. “Honestly, Sam, the only thing keeping me from begging you to stay is the knowledge that if you do, I can very nearly guarantee that we’ll take this further than we probably should, considering I’d like to drag this out for as long as I possibly can. The answer to your question, if it wasn’t obvious, is no.”

 

The tightness in Sam’s chest eased up as the realization dawned that perhaps Elliott hadn’t asked if he was staying because he wanted him to leave but more so that he _needed_ him to. Elliott was thinking of sex, and he was thinking of sex _with Sam_. The thought that he actually wanted it and wanted to prolong whatever it was they were doing was sending Sam’s heart into irregular palpitations that made him slightly concerned for the murmur his doctor had diagnosed him with as a small child.

 

“Okay then. So as the resident expert here, what happens now?”

 

Elliott laughed, mood immediately lightening. “I’m not an expert by any means, but normally at this time in the evening, if you weren’t planning on staying—which, for future reference, I would happily share a bed with you—then I’d ask if I could call you. Unfortunately,” he added, “ _someone_ taught me how to Snapchat a few days ago, and I’m afraid the battery on my phone hasn’t been charged since my cord split.”

 

Sam bit his upper lip to keep from smiling. He’d been nervous to screenshot anything when Elliott had sent him that first picture, but after Elliott had screenshotted a series of what Sam considered to be rather horrible selfies, Sam had gotten brave enough to save the pictures Elliott sent him. “Your phone is an older model of mine; I should have a charger that’s compatible with it.”

 

Elliott’s voice was hesitant, as if he were treading particularly carefully over what he was about to say next. “Let’s say I charged my phone and wanted to make a phone call later tonight. Would that be okay?”

 

Sam licked his lips. “We’re talking in theory, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“That would definitely be okay,” Sam answered. “Would you want to walk me home, then? I can grab the charger for you.”

 

Elliott beamed. “I would love to. But first…” He cupped Sam’s face in his hands and kissed him tenderly, mouth slanting over Sam’s with a sort of gentleness that made everything in Sam’s chest cavity ache. He pressed his lips to either of Sam’s cheeks, the tip of his nose, his forehead. “A goodnight kiss. Is that okay as well?”

 

Sam hummed, fingers seeking out Elliott’s hips. He pulled him closer and tipped his face up expectantly. “More than okay. Do you think we could practice that a bit more, though?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“The kissing,” Sam said between breaths. Elliott’s mouth was trailing along his jaw, behind his ear. He was getting hard again, which should have been impossible but was shaping up to be a very real possibility. “I think my technique’s a bit off.”

 

“Ah, because you’re so new at this?” Elliott clambered onto Sam’s lap and slid a hand up his shirt, hungry fingers seeking out Sam’s sensitive nipples. His eyes lit up when he found one of his targets and Sam gasped. He pursed his lips and tutted softly. “What a shame, we just got dressed.”

 

Within moments, Sam’s clothes hit the floor again.

 

*

 

Sam slid into his seat at the dinner table just as his mother was placing the roast at the center of the table. Vincent was already there and waiting, jam smeared across one cheek and crumbs scattered across his plate from where he’d been nicking rolls out of the bread basket. His cheeks were half-full; he gave Sam a gap-toothed smile and stuffed another bite of roll between his teeth.

 

Sam’s stomach growled; he grabbed the meat from the table and started serving it before Jodi’s hands had left the serving dish. His body felt wrung out and well-worn; he imagined he was a walking example of a term his mother frequently used: ridden hard and put up wet. He was sore and exhausted in the best way, impatient to see Elliott’s name light up his phone screen that night.

 

“Hungry?”

 

“Starved,” Sam replied. “Everything looks great, Mom.”

 

Vincent plucked another roll from the basket and stuck his tongue through the gap where he was missing his two front teeth. “I’m not eating any broccoli, so don’t put any on my plate.”

 

“Yes, you are.” Jodi pecked a quick kiss to the top of Sam’s head and smoothed a hand across the back of his hair before taking a seat. “That handsome young writer from the beach didn’t want to stay for supper?”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “He’s got a name, you know. And no, he was just stopping by. His phone charger broke, and I told him he could borrow an old one of mine.” Sam reached forward for the bowl of potatoes and started filling Vincent’s plate.

 

“That was sweet of you, Sam. I didn’t realize you were friends with him,” she hummed. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and accepted the bowl of potatoes from Sam.

 

Sam dropped a large spoonful of broccoli onto Vincent’s plate despite the face he was making. “It’s sort of a new development,” he offered vaguely. “Since we both hang out with Poppy and Leah, it makes sense that we’d be friends, too.”

 

“He’s a merman,” Vincent announced proudly, puffing his chest. “Did you know that?”

 

Sam and Jodi exchanged glances; Jodi asked, “Is he? And where did you hear that?”

 

Vincent speared a piece of broccoli with his fork and slipped it onto Sam’s plate when he thought Jodi wasn’t watching. “He told us,” he said matter-of-factly. “Miss Penny went with us to ask him and everything! He came from a place called Atlanticus.”

 

“Atlantis,” Jodi corrected kindly. She picked up the bowl of broccoli and dropped a few more pieces on Vincent’s plate to replace the ones he’d been sneaking onto Sam’s. “And what did he say when you asked if he was a merman?”

 

Vincent shot Sam an exasperated look as if to say, _Can you believe this?_ “He told us that he was but that we had to keep it a big secret ‘cause if the other mermaids find out they’ll take his legs away and turn him into sea foam.”

 

“Oh, really? And that’s what you learned with Penny this week?”

 

“No, that was last week.” Chewing thoughtfully, Vincent said, “If I don’t marry Jas or Miss Penny, I think I might marry Mr. Walton. He has nice hair.”

 

Sam swallowed his roll wrong; he coughed and smacked at his chest. Jodi patted him on the back and said, “I think he may be a little too old for you, sweetheart. Maybe you should set your sights on someone closer to your own age.” Jodi landed a rather hard blow on Sam’s back; the roll dislodged itself from where it was stuck in his throat and shot out into Vincent’s broccoli.

 

“Don’t worry, Vincent,” Sam choked out, eyes watering, “once you hit eighteen, age is irrelevant.”

 

“Sam!”

 

Sam took a sip of tea to soothe the ache in his throat. “What? Weren’t you the one just calling Elliott the handsome young writer from the beach?”

 

Jodi’s hands fluttered at the chain around her neck, twisting and tugging. She wore a twin set of Kent’s dog tags around her neck; she tended to fiddle with them when she got flustered or nervous. “That’s _different_ , I’m a married woman and a mother to boot—”

 

“Mom’s a cougar,” Sam whispered conspiratorially to Vincent.

 

“Mom’s a cougar!” he shouted. To Sam, he asked, “What’s a cougar?”

 

Sam grinned. “It’s when—”

 

“—Samuel Matthew, don’t you dare—”

 

“—older woman likes a—”

 

“—you’re not too old to get your mouth washed out with—”

 

“—younger man,” Sam finished triumphantly.

 

Vincent wrinkled his nose. “Oh, Mom’s not one of those. Dad’s _old_ , ‘member? Mom says the war’s aged him.”

 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table at that. Any mention of Kent tended to turn a normal family dinner into something eerily similar to a wake. It wasn’t that they didn’t like talking about Kent; it was that they didn’t like talking about Kent with the possibility of his return in a coffin hanging over their heads. His deployment was coming to a close soon, Sam knew, but the times at which he came to the end of a deployment always felt like the most dangerous. Sam watched his mother for any reaction; she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and went back to twisting at the dog tags around her neck.

 

Vincent, completely unaware of the shift in tone at the table, poked at his broccoli and the half-chewed roll sitting like a trophy atop it. His eyes were alight in something not unlike victory; he grabbed another roll. “This means I don’t have to eat the broccoli now, right?”

 

*

 

Poppy and Sam made a day of setting up for their eleventh wedding of the season.

 

There were the early morning crepes and coffee splashed with a hint of chocolate bourbon, fresh fruit, muffins, and quiches. They ate as they worked, inside jokes and criticism mingling in the shop as Poppy, Leah, and Sam finalized the arrangements for what would arguably be their biggest wedding of the season. Sebastian flitted about taking pictures of various arrangements to upload to Poppy’s webpage and Facebook; he declined the offer to tag along for the day and slipped out as quickly as he could.

 

There was the karaoke as Poppy and Sam left Leah behind and drove two hours north to the Mayfair wedding: Sam Smith, AC/DC, and Nicki Minaj, the melody of Poppy’s infectious laughter pealing through the air as Sam worked his way flawlessly through “Super Bass” and slipped into “Highway to Hell” without batting an eye.

 

Poppy’s and Sam’s friendship had always been so _easy_ , he reflected as they were putting the finishing touches on the wedding and waiting for the check to be cut. It didn’t matter that things had changed: Poppy was married now, Joja was dead, and Sam was, for all intents and purposes, sleeping with her best friend. It didn’t matter—not really, at least—that Poppy had discussed at length with Sam about how she ached for motherhood in a way that Leah did not. Unlike his relationships with essentially everyone else in town, Sam felt a guaranteed assurance that his relationship with Poppy would never change, regardless of the life cycle they happened to be in at any given point in time.

 

Poppy, Sam realized, knew and understood him in a way that even Sebastian did not.

 

Sam’s relationship with Poppy was as easy as breathing. It was organic and natural; the back-and-forth between them more like siblings than friends who’d known one another for a little over a year. They were different in so many aspects, but they were scarily similar in so many others.

 

There was Poppy’s dad, for example, and what she had once described to him as The Big Sad that came over her when the calendar date rolled too close to the anniversary of his death. He’d been killed in active duty—an IED, she told him early in their friendship—and during those times, the times in which Leah was unable to pull Poppy from the burrow she’d created in the folds of the duvet, she called Sam.

 

Sam could always pull Poppy out of it, and when he couldn’t, he climbed right in beside her to ride it out. Aside from Vincent, Sam was the only person in town who knew what it felt like to have a loved one at war; even then, he hadn’t actually _lost_ his dad like Poppy had.

 

Poppy and Sam were best friends, plain and simple, and he theorized that they would probably stay that way for the rest of their lives.

 

It was comforting to have that unfamiliar sense of guarantee in a relationship.

 

Poppy slipped her small hand into Sam’s as they walked down what had to be one of the busiest streets in Zuzu City. The summer air was hot and muggy; Poppy’s hair was twice its usual size and she’d tied her denim shirt around her waist hours ago. She weaved her way through the crowd filtering down the sidewalk, automatically at home in the city she’d lived in for her entire life, and led the way to what she’d coined “the best place for small plates in the entire Ferngill Republic.” Sam trailed behind, happy to coast on the coattails of the brilliant electricity that was simply Poppy.

 

It wasn’t until they’d been seated at a corner booth in a restaurant called Devante’s that Poppy finally settled from the excitement of the day. Sam could see it in the set of her shoulders, the lines of her face—hell, he could practically see it in the wild mane of her hair. It was as if, right before a big wedding or event, everything about Poppy got a little wilder, a little louder, and it wasn’t until afterwards that should could properly settle back into her skin.

 

She ordered a half-dozen small plates to split between the two of them, stretched her short legs out beneath the table so her feet were constantly bumping into Sam’s, and took a long sip of her water. “I think the wedding went off without a hitch, don’t you?” she asked.

 

“Elliott and I hooked up,” Sam blurted in response. It came out too fast, too blunt, but it was lying there between the two of them and Sam wasn’t sure what Poppy would do with the information now that she had it. Poppy swallowed hard and blinked, eyelids fluttering rapidly over the bright green of her pupils. Before she could even open her mouth to form a response, Sam added, “Honestly, I wasn’t going to tell you about it, but you know him better than anyone besides Leah.”

 

“Sam—”

 

“I like him,” Sam said. “Fuck.”

 

“Fuck,” Poppy agreed. “I mean, I kind of made my own assumptions when I caught you with your hands down his pants at work, but hearing you say it is another thing. You hooked up? Outside of my shop?”

 

Sam toyed with the straw in his drink, avoiding looking into Poppy’s eyes. “I mean, I guess? We didn’t sleep together, if that’s what you think, but we fooled around. At least, _he_ fooled around with _me_.”

 

Poppy raised her eyebrows and waited for Sam to elaborate.

 

He could feel the heat of a blush burning his ears; he bit back the urge to bark out a random fact about musicians and instead shrugged. “I don’t want to kiss and tell,” he said uneasily. “But—it was pretty one-sided.”

 

“And you like him,” Poppy repeated.

 

Sam winced. “The more you say it, the truer it gets. Can we not keep repeating it?”

 

Poppy nudged the toe of her sandal against Sam’s and grinned. “It’s okay to like him, Sam. It’s not a marriage proposal or any sort of commitment; what’s the harm in saying, ‘I enjoy this guy’s presence and I want to spend time with him?’”

 

“It’s just so new. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea of Elliott being interested in someone like me, you know?”

 

Poppy glanced up as the waiter stopped to top off their glasses; she murmured her thanks and resumed their conversation. “You say ‘someone like me’ as if you’re completely unappealing. Do you find it so hard to believe that someone would be interested in you?”

 

“Kind of, yeah,” Sam mumbled.

 

Poppy reached across the table and took both of Sam’s hands in her own. Putting on a serious face, she said, “Sam. Any man with a lick of sense would _kill_ to have a young piece of ass like yours warming his bed every night. I can tell you that Elliott is no exception. If he was planning on hitting and quitting it, he would’ve fucked you and gotten it over with. He’s had plenty of affairs before—not with anyone in town, wipe that look off your face—and he was never one to run out on a lover. It’s not his style; he’s more of the hopeless romantic type. And anyways,” she added, “this has been going on for a minute, hasn’t it? ”

 

Sam debated whether or not the weeks leading up to their first kiss counted as being part of whatever it was they were doing now. He decided that the harmless flirting and the nights spent lying awake and thinking of Elliott surely had to count for something. “It’s been going on for a month,” Sam amended.

 

Poppy nearly spit her drink out. “ _That long_? When did it start?”

 

Sam thought for a few moments before saying, “Remember that first beach party of the summer? That’s the first time we really talked.”

 

"Yoba, Sam, and you held out that long to kiss him?"

 

The waiter reappeared with a tray laden with dishes; as he set them out on the table, he said, “For the lovely young couple. Could I get you anything else?”

 

“I don’t think so, but thank you,” Sam responded. The waiter smiled and bowed away; Sam waited until he’d disappeared from view to say incredulously, “The lovely young couple?”

 

Poppy snorted. “Sorry, Sam, but I’m a lesbian. You’re not exactly my type.”

 

Sam grinned and popped a piece of crispy calamari in his mouth. “Not your type, huh? Not into blonds?”

 

“Not into dick,” Poppy corrected him primly.

 

“That’s okay,” Sam winked as he dipped into the bruschetta. “I am.”

 

*

 

Sunday found Sam traipsing to the library in search of a book on Stevie Nicks.

 

It was increasingly difficult to find biographies he hadn’t read in their sparse library. Sam had been reading biographies on famous musicians for so long that he’d eventually started rereading the ones he couldn’t remember as well as he did some of the others. Sure, Gunther ordered books when new grants came in and they were allotted funds to make purchases, but he wasn’t the only person requesting new reading materials. Sam would often put in requests for books, but they went unanswered more often than not. There were other readers in town, anyways: Penny read historical romance, Harvey read sci-fi novels, and Elliott read…

 

With a start, Sam realized he didn’t know what Elliott read aside from poetry.

 

He wracked his brain and tried to call to mind any one of the several novels perched on the shelves above Elliott’s bed. There were Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ , Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allan Poe—all poetry. Orwell and Bradbury, Sam thought he remembered. _Fahrenheit 451_ and _Wind-Up Bird Chronicle_ alongside other classics, but those Sam couldn’t recall. He remembered the Whitman novel best though; Sam had gotten it for him last year when Poppy played matchmaker and convinced Lewis to make Sam and Elliott exchange gifts at the Feast of the Winter Star. He had scribbled on the inside cover a short inscription: _Happy Wintersday! Sam Underhill_. When he’d peeked inside the front cover a few days ago, the words were faded slightly but still there. It felt strange, seeing his name written so formally across something of Elliott’s now.

 

So much had changed in two seasons’ time.

 

Sam resolved himself to asking Elliott about his tastes in reading material the next time he saw him. His birthday was sometime in the fall; Sam reasoned that if they were still doing whatever it was they were doing, it would only be appropriate to get him a gift. A book would be good, Sam thought. He could write something different on the inside cover this year.

 

Gunther glanced up when Sam entered the library. He was busy poring over what looked to be a box of junk but what was likely something Poppy had found buried in the mines; he gave Sam a friendly smile and put down the magnifying glass he was using to study the artifacts.

 

Sam rested his arms on the counter. “Hey, my mom passed along your message—you got that new book in?”

 

“We did! We got one on Stevie Nicks, and there’s another on Tom Petty that should be back there. I trust you can find it on your own?”

 

Sam was already headed for the biographical section of the library. “Absolutely. Thanks for ordering those, by the way!”

 

Gunther shrugged. “A few others have been asking questions about biographies, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to widen the selection a bit. It’s no problem, really.”

 

Sam couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. He hadn’t been a fan of required reading in school, but getting a new book on something he actually _enjoyed_ was one of the best feelings in the world. Hearing that someone else was interested in learning more about one of his favorite subjects? Totally topped that feeling.

 

Sam was pleasantly surprised when he stepped into the center aisle of the biographical section. Elliott looked up from the book he was examining, eyes widening slightly behind his square-rimmed reading glasses. He gave Sam one of those megawatt smiles, closed the book, and asked, “Did you know that Stevie Nicks loves animal crackers?”

 

Sam’s eyes dropped to the book cradled delicately in Elliott’s hands. It was _Gold Dust Woman: The Biography of Stevie Nicks_ , the exact book Sam had been looking for.

 

It didn’t matter that Sam had kissed Elliott more times than he could count, that Elliott knew his body more intimately than anyone in town, that he and Sam had spent a total of seven hours and twenty-four minutes on the phone together since Thursday. (Sam wasn’t counting).

 

Sam felt the smile split across his face; he took a clumsy step forward. “Uh, hi,” he managed, ears burning red with nerves and embarrassment.

 

Elliott made a show of looking around to ensure they were alone in the empty library. He held a hand out and wiggled his fingers in Sam’s direction; Sam went to him immediately. Elliott slid one hand into place at the small of Sam’s back and cupped the other at the nape of his neck; he buried his face into Sam’s hair and scented at him.

 

Sam could feel every inch of Elliott’s toned upper body pressing into his as they hugged. He was slender, lithe, body wired with lean muscles from morning yoga and afternoon swims. Voice muffled by Elliott’s shoulder, he said, “I didn’t take you for a biographies kind of guy.”

 

Elliott’s voice rumbled against Sam’s scalp. “I thought I would borrow one of your seduction techniques and give random facts about musicians. Is it working?”

 

Sam pulled away from Elliott and dropped to his knees, only half-serious about following through with what he was essentially offering. Peering up at the older man, he said, “I don’t know. Do you think it is?” Sam glanced back down to stare directly at Elliott’s waistline. He fingered the button on Elliott’s fly, undid the buttons and took the zip down.

 

“Yes,” Elliott admitted, “I think it is.”

 

The carpet in the library was well-worn, clean and traipsed across; the rough pattern of the short weave pebbled into Sam’s knees and left his skin burning. He shifted slightly, rubbing his knees into the carpet once more and enjoying the sensation chafing across his skin. He rolled his eyes up to meet Elliott’s; the older man stared down at Sam with a look equal parts starved desire and naked apprehension painted across his features.

 

Sam nudged the front flaps of Elliott’s pants down to expose Elliott’s boxer-cloaked cock. His growing erection strained against the stretchy material of the boxer briefs, thick cut head pressing against the already tight fabric. A spot of precome stained the front and soaked clear through; Sam dragged the tip of his nose lightly across the spot and breathed in. It was a heady scent; Sam could pick out notes from Elliott’s body wash and laundry detergent. Below that was the musk of Elliott’s skin, a mixture of homemade moisturizer and skin and _Elliott_ that made Sam’s mouth water. He wanted to taste that scent on his tongue, in the back of his throat. He wanted to drink Elliott and memorize the flavor of his skin so badly it ached. Sam repeated his action once more, eyes fluttering closed as he scented at the juncture of Elliott’s groin and thigh. Elliott let out a shaky breath above Sam and gripped tight at the edge of the bookshelf.

 

Sam slipped cool fingers past the waistband of Elliott’s boxer briefs and pulled down _slow slow slow_ , mind tripping over the memory of Elliott doing this exact thing to Sam under different circumstances. He explained it to Sam then, lips moving with the discourse as he trailed a series of barely-brushed kisses across the map of his skin. Sam hadn’t paid much attention to what Elliott said; he’d been preoccupied with Elliott’s lips and tongue and teeth grazing across every piece of valuable real estate on Sam’s chest and abdomen. Elliott’s voice had been used as background noise, music that only added to the pleasure Sam was experiencing in the moment. Sam hadn’t placed much stock in what Elliott was saying, just that his voice was doing wonders of turning him on even more than he already was.

 

Elliott’s skin felt hot to to the touch, taut and layered with muscle from the yoga and swimming he did. Sam grazed the rough pad of his thumb down the sharp line of Elliott’s inguinal crease and followed it down.

 

“Sam,” Elliott whispered, voice hoarse. Sam paused just as Elliott’s dick strained to pop free from his boxers; Elliott’s eyes glittered in his face. His breathing was already labored, chest heaving with anticipation. Sam saw the red flush creeping across Elliott’s collarbones. He wanted to lie Elliott down and properly devour him, run his mouth over every plane and hollow of Elliott’s body, but he couldn’t do that here. Here in the library, he could fuck Elliott with his mouth and run the risk of getting caught.

 

Sam was so hard it hurt.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Gunther might—”

 

Sam licked his lips. The thought of being caught was both terrifying and hot. Confidently, he said, “He’s not going to, babe. Promise.” Before Elliott could open his mouth to protest further, Sam stretched out the elastic on the waistband and pulled down. Elliott’s erection sprang free; Sam dipped his fingers down and cupped at Elliott’s balls gently. They were heavy, drawn taut and nestled close into the heat of his body. Elliott’s cock bobbed freely, the tip of his prick red and swollen.

 

Elliott was fucking hung.

 

There was a moment in which the only thought registering in Sam’s brain was holy shit there’s an actual dick staring me in the eye and then he took a breath and brushed his palm across the bulging front of his jeans. He thought of Elliott doing this very thing days ago, expert mouth sucking him off after he’d wrung pleasure from Sam’s body once before with the precision of an artist using oils on canvas. He chanced a peek up at Elliott and saw his flushed cheeks, pupils dilated and his lips wet with saliva. He looked touched-starved, hungry for human contact.

 

Sam wanted to be good for him.

 

Sam licked his lips hesitantly and reached a hand out. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Elliott’s cock slowly, fingers brushing through the neatly trimmed thatch of hair to press solidly against the heat of his skin. Elliott hissed quietly between his teeth at the chill of the air conditioner clinging to Sam’s trembling fingers; he shuttered his eyes closed and tipped his head forward so his hair fell and curtained either side of his face.

 

Sam thought furiously back to the conversation he’d had with Abigail on giving blowjobs, back to the myriad of porn he’d flicked through night before last in the hopes he’d learn something about sex with men. The porn was going to be a near miss, considering he had Elliott’s dick out and in his hand and he hadn’t been slapped across the face with it yet. He was cautiously optimistic that that was a good sign, but there was still plenty of time for the slapping to happen.

 

Remembering that they were in public and out in the open for anyone—Yoba forbid, Gunther—to see, Sam leaned forward to rest the majority of his weight on his knees. Tongue flicking out experimentally, Sam licked a long stripe up the length of Elliott’s cock.

 

The salty-sharp musk of Elliott’s skin sent arousal coiling hot and sweet down Sam’s spine; he repeated the action once more and enjoyed the shudder Elliott made when the rough patch of Sam’s tongue grazed across the backside of the head of his cock. Working more saliva into his mouth, Sam lapped at Elliott’s head with short, small strokes. The smooth skin felt exquisite; Sam popped it into his mouth and suckled lightly.

 

Elliott nearly doubled over.

 

Elliott reached a hand down and slipped his fingers through the hair at the back of Sam’s head. His fingernails scratched lightly at Sam’s scalp, the sensation reminiscent of the afternoon they’d spent together in Elliott’s cabin. Voice low, he growled, “When you take me, sheath your teeth with your lips. Like I did, remember?”

 

Sam’s mouth popped off Elliott’s cock; he tipped his head up to stare at Elliott. His lips felt swollen already; his jeans were uncomfortably tight and he could feel the precome from his arousal seeping through his boxers. “Okay.”

 

Gaze softening, Elliott murmured, “You don’t have to do this, you know. I would be happy without it.”

 

Sam nuzzled his nose along the long line of Elliott’s erection, inhaling his scent. He wanted to bottle the scent, devour him whole, swallow him up. He wanted Elliott so badly it ached in every fiber of his being; not fucking him with his mouth simply wasn’t an option at this point.

 

If Sam didn’t blow Elliott like he should have that first day on the beach, he would never forgive himself.

 

Sheathing his teeth as Elliott instructed, Sam ducked his head and swallowed Elliott down. Elliott’s fingers tightened their grip in his hair and he sucked in another hard breath. His entire body was tense, alight with pleasure, but he wouldn’t make noise here. Sam wanted to hear his voice, rough and cobbled with desire, as he made him fall apart, watched as Elliott crumbled piece by piece under Sam’s ministrations, but Sam knew he wouldn’t do that here. Not here, not where everyone could hear and potentially see what was happening between the stacks of books.

 

Another time, perhaps.

 

The thought sent another shockwave of pleasure firing across every nerve synapse in Sam’s body. His own cock pulsed in his jeans, twitching and throbbing with desire, but Sam didn’t touch himself. Elliott had made it clear that the other day had been about Sam; he wanted this to be about Elliott.

 

Sam took the head in his mouth first and worked his way down slowly, stretching out his lips to accommodate Elliott’s girth. He was both thick and long, cock flushed red and swollen with need. Sam ran the tip of his tongue gently along the line of Elliott’s head, then swirled his tongue around the softer skin on the shaft.

 

He wrapped his fingers tight around the base of Elliott’s dick and twisted gently as he bobbed his head further down. Something hot and sweet-sour beaded from the slit of Elliott’s member and smeared across the back of Sam’s palate; Sam swallowed around the weight of Elliott’s cock in his mouth and enjoyed the quaking breath the older man released into the air.

 

Fingers carding through his hair and tightening to a point of near pain, Elliott adjusted the angle of Sam’s face just slightly. He cupped his free hand against Sam’s jaw, pressed the pads of his fingers a little too hard against the sharp angle just below his ear. Sam opened his mouth wider in response, slacking his jaw and angling his face up so the curve of Elliott’s cock rubbed against the roughness of Sam’s tongue with each thrust.

 

“Sam,” he whispered, pupils blown with arousal. “You know I’m not—”

His voice cut off abruptly as Sam pulled back, fist twisting at the root of Elliott’s cock with the upwards motion of his mouth. He ducked his head back down, mouth sliding against the silky wet heat of Elliott’s swollen prick. Sam’s lips met the outside of his fist; Elliott’s cock nudged the back of Sam’s throat. He repeated the motion, a little faster this time, spit pooling at the corners of his lips and dripping down onto Elliott’s boxer briefs.

 

Elliott kept one hand in Sam’s hair and the other pressed hard against Sam’s jaw; he rocked his hips forward into Sam’s mouth. His head hit the back of Sam’s throat once more and a soft, pleased noise escaped from somewhere deep in his throat. Sam’s nostrils flared and the muscles in his throat spasmed at the intrusion; he swallowed past the dull ache and the spit and precome overflowing in his mouth. “You don’t have—” and Elliott thrusted once more, hips canting so everything but the tip of his cock left Sam’s mouth “—a gag reflex, how _lovely_ ,” he growled, voice so low Sam wasn’t sure he’d actually spoken the words.

 

Sam reached his free hand up and fondled at Elliott’s balls. They were taut and heavy with his impending orgasm; drawn up against his body already. Sam knew that meant he was close. He was a man; he at least knew that much about his own body. Sam rolled them lightly against the calloused skin of his palm; the vein in Elliott’s cock pulsed against the side of Sam’s tongue.

 

Elliott’s hips jerked forward intermittently, cock sliding in and out of Sam’s mouth at a smooth pace that left Sam’s lips feeling stretched out and raw. He sucked at the saliva collecting in his mouth and swallowed around the weight of Elliott’s erection; Elliott groaned softly.

 

“Again,” he murmured.

 

Sam repeated the action, working his throat and squeezing Elliott’s balls as Elliott rutted into his mouth. Sam flicked the tip of his tongue up so it pressed directly into the underside of Elliott’s dick; on Elliott’s next thrust, the hard tip of Sam’s tongue dragged from root to head and back. Elliott’s member pulsed at the sensation once, twice, and Elliott cried out softly, voice still barely above a whisper.

 

“I’m going to—”

 

He came on the next thrust. It spilled hot and bitter from Elliott’s head, the salty tang sharp and wholly unfamiliar. Sam swallowed it down, kept swallowing, sucked Elliott until his cock was soft and spent. There was come and spit smeared across Sam’s chin; the corners of his lips felt cracked and sore. Elliott pulled out of Sam’s mouth, body trembling, and tucked himself back into his pants.

 

Elliott squatted down so he was eye level with Sam and kissed him, tongue lapping insistently at the abused seam of Sam’s lips. “Sam,” he murmured between kisses, “your mouth was positively _made_ for that, darling. Do you want me to—”

 

“Too late,” Sam admitted, “but I’m always up for round two, if you think you can keep up.”

 

Elliott pulled away just long enough to glance down at the increasingly apparent spot on Sam’s jeans where he’d come from blowing Elliott. He grinned, pleased with himself. “I think I can manage. Should we go to the cabin, then?”

 

Sam’s knees cracked as Elliott helped him stand; he shot a quick glance around before kissing Elliott again. “Lead the way.”

 

As Elliott led Sam from between the stacks of books and toward the exit, careful distance maintained between the two of them, Gunther pretended to be engrossed in cataloguing a new set of fossils they’d recently excavated from the mines. He hadn’t heard anything suspicious from the center aisle of the library where the biographies were located. He did a good job of ignoring the half-done fly on Mr. Walton’s pants, and there was most certainly not a wet spot blossoming across the front of Samuel Underhill’s jeans.

 

Like any good librarian, he decided to catalogue it away and pretend nothing had ever happened.

 

As far as Samuel Underhill and Elliott Walton went, he hadn’t heard a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you times a million to everyone who has been sending us love, good vibes, and lots of positive feedback! You guys literally water the withered gardens of our souls with your kind words.
> 
> Be on the lookout for another M/M fic set in the Stardew Valley 'verse by my lovely coauthor mercymain and myself—it's a Shane/OC fic that we think you'll really enjoy!
> 
> Drop a line, mash that kudos button, and come hang out with us on Tumblr!
> 
> xoxo ohsocyanide


	10. Chapter 10

 

Time flowed strangely for the next two weeks, as if Elliott’s life was starting and stopping in front of his eyes without any sense of ownership or structure. It passed in a rose-colored haze, punctuated with laughter and heat and Sam. More than anything, bursts of Sam—fingers dancing up his spine, whispers in his ear. Coy glances as he tumbled into bed. Honeyed lips, tasting of wine, searching desperately for undiscovered skin to mark.

 

Elliott spent those weeks dizzy and entirely unwilling to steady himself. It was a sweet kind of dizzy - the kind you could only get from good kisses and fevered touches. Elliott knew himself well enough to recognize the feeling. He was standing at the threshold of falling in love; he could practically feel himself lingering at the door, seconds away from stepping through. The feeling was equal parts pleasant and terrifying, and it wasn’t made any better by the fact that Elliott hardly had a moment to himself to think about it properly.

 

Every free second Elliott had was reserved, in one way or another, for Sam. Not a single day went by from that afternoon in the library that the two didn’t see each other. At first Sam would ask if he could come over, wary of seeming too eager. Now he simply walked inside unannounced with an air of familiarity that made Elliott’s heart skip. They would spend hours together, talking and unwinding and doing everything just shy of making love. Even when Sam had to eventually leave for work or family obligations, he was never far away. He would send Elliott pictures and thoughts he had throughout the day, mixed in with flirting bold enough to make the older man blush almost every time. At night Sam locked himself into his bedroom and called Elliott on the phone, his voice registering just barely above a whisper so that no one would wonder who he was talking to past midnight.

 

How unbelievable that just two weeks could breed such a level of comfort between two people. Elliott knew, for instance, just how Sam liked to be held when he was coming down from a climax: cradled against Elliott’s chest with arms wrapped tight around him. And Sam knew just the right words to say to tempt Elliott away from a book and back to bed. For Elliott, coming down from two years with no romantic attachments, weaving Sam into his life came more naturally than he might have expected. It was just so _effortless_ to be with him. He smiled freely and without reserve, and he asked nothing of Elliott spare his time and attention.

 

They may not have been using labels, but Sam fell into the role of a boyfriend with ease. Elliott could hardly remember a previous relationship where the other person had been quite so captivated by him. Normally he was the one to do the chasing, and he tried his best to grab hold and swim in his partner’s wake as they outpaced him. Sam, however, seemed to bloom a little bit every time he saw Elliott. One night lying in bed, Sam had described how he had once stalked the beach for days just hoping for a glimpse of the man. He even admitted to pleasuring himself at the thought of them being together as far back as a month ago. Elliott was shocked. He had assumed that he was the one harboring feelings long before Sam ever gave him a second glance, but it seemed that the two of them had opened their eyes to each other at precisely the same time.

 

Despite this, Elliott was aware that all this couldn’t last forever. He was perfectly happy on a day-to-day basis, but he also knew that arrangements like theirs weren’t built for the long-term. Elliott was willing to tamp his feelings down for Sam’s sake at the moment, but he knew that he couldn’t keep it up indefinitely. Truth be told, he chafed under the secrecy of it all. He wanted to take Sam out—on proper dates, not just furtive meet-ups in his cabin—and do all the clichéd romantic things that Sam had never been allowed before. But Sam was only his in private. For all intents and purposes, their relationship didn’t exist outside of the four walls of his cabin or within the seclusion of Poppy’s farm, now that both she and Leah knew what was going on. Elliott could feel his affection for Sam building up more and more each day, and sometime soon that levy would burst. He fully expected Sam to leave as soon as Elliott told him his true feelings—that he wasn’t the casual hookup he had promised Sam he would be.

 

 _Ah well,_ Elliott thought as he stood in his shower, wincing under the heat of it. _Thoughts for another day._

 

Hopping out of the shower, Elliott began to dry himself off before checking his phone for the time. It was early, and he had a full hour before he needed to be at Poppy’s farm for breakfast. Just enough time to make coffee, finish another chapter of his latest Baldwin novel, and call his editor to confirm their plans for later in the week. She had reached out to him the night before to let him know that she had finished going through his novel and suggested a face-to-face meeting in Zuzu to discuss it rather than put herself through the trouble of coming out to the valley. He was ready to hear what she had to say, but he would be lying if he pretended like he wasn’t nervous.  

 

Elliott wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom, steam rolling out behind him. Sam was sitting on the bed with his legs kicked out over the sides. Elliott stopped in his tracks, thrown off by the fact that he hadn’t heard his front door open.

 

“Good morning,” Sam said, looking amused that he’d been able to keep his presence a surprise. “Have a nice shower?”

 

“It was fine, but truth be told I could have used some company.” Sam smiled wider at that and got up to cross the room. “What brings you here?”

 

“I wanted to see you before we had breakfast at Poppy’s.” Sam stopped in front of Elliott and kissed him softly, lingering a few extra seconds before pulling away.

 

Elliott was far too old to swoon at a simple good morning kiss, but damn if Sam didn’t make him feel lightheaded. “I didn’t realize you would be joining us,” he said. “I thought you were busy with band practice all day.”

 

“Were you hoping to get some time away from me?” Sam teased.

 

Elliott brought his hand to the back of Sam’s neck and kissed him again, bringing their bodies closer together. “You know that’s not true,” he said gently.

 

Sam let out a small, contented sigh. “Nate had car troubles this morning, so he’s not getting in until the afternoon. Poppy said I was more than welcome at breakfast if I wanted to swing by.”

 

“Of course she did. Have you ever known Poppy to turn down a chance to have guests over?”

 

“I guess not,” Sam mused. “Anyway, I was going to make us coffee but I guess I don’t know how to work your machine.”

 

“Oh, it’s much simpler than it looks. I’ll make it.”

 

Elliott took a reluctant step back from Sam and walked to the kitchen, plugging his coffee maker in and grabbing two mugs from the pantry. “Will you have any free time tomorrow?” he asked over his shoulder. “I realize I’ve been rather greedy with your schedule these past few weeks, but if you’re able to come over I’d like to make you dinner. I caught a few lobsters in my crab pots this morning, and I’m looking to try my hand at a bisque.”

 

When he didn’t get an answer, he turned around to see Sam standing right where he’d left him, eyes trained on Elliott’s body. Elliott was suddenly very aware that he was still only wearing a towel.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Sorry,” he said with a breathless laugh. “It’s just that you look really sexy right now.”

 

Elliott could feel the heat creeping up his face, but tried to play his tone off as casually as he could. “Do you think so?”

 

Sam took a few deliberate steps towards Elliott, eyes still running over his chest and hips. “Yeah. How do you look so good just coming out of the shower?”

 

“I’m sure that I don’t.”

 

“You do, though.” Sam was back in front of Elliott now. His finger traced along the plane of Elliott’s collarbone before trailing down the middle of his chest to his waist. He tucked it into the band of Elliott’s towel, toying with the fabric. Sam watched Elliott’s face hungrily, gauging his reaction. “But you’re still a little overdressed. You should fix that.”

 

“You’re more dressed than I am.”

 

Sam leaned into Elliott, tongue hot against his neck. “You first,” he whispered, causing Elliott to let out a shaky sigh. “Here, I’ll help.”

 

His fingers unhooked the towel and it dropped around Elliott's ankles unceremoniously. Elliott hardly had cause to be nervous about Sam seeing his body—he had seen enough of it by now—but he nevertheless felt the instinctual need to cover up, although he doubted Sam would let him.

 

“Better?” he asked, blushing at the sight of Sam’s eyes drinking him in. If he wasn’t already hard, he certainly was when Sam looked up at him and licked his lips.

 

“Much better,” Sam agreed. He pushed Elliott back until he was pressed against the kitchen counter.

 

Elliott’s eyes fluttered shut as Sam’s hand began to run up his leg. Sometimes he could hardly believe Sam’s constant appetite for intimacy. He was much bolder than Elliott had imagined at the start of their affair, but he was hardly complaining. If anything, he found it all unbelievably flattering. That train of thought was interrupted as he felt a hot hand grasp at his dick, tugging gently from base to tip.

 

“Sam,” he moaned, “we don’t have a lot of time.”

 

Sam nuzzled his face against the roughness of Elliott’s beard. “We have a whole hour. That’s plenty.”

 

Elliott didn’t put up any further protest, although they never did get around to making coffee.

 

*

 

It was still relatively early by the time the two left Elliott’s cabin, so they felt better about walking around together. Even so, they cut through the forest path to get to Poppy’s rather than going through town square. Elliott was sure that no one’s first reaction to seeing them walking next to each other would be to assume that they were lovers, but it was better to be safe. Elliott was a private enough person that it was sometimes a point of gossip if he was seen socializing with people outside of his inner circle. Better to keep Sam out of the rumor mill wherever it could be helped.

 

So as to not seem too familiar, they walked in silence until they were past Sam’s house and through the trees. Elliott could practically feel the tension lift as soon as they were out of town.

 

“Dinner tomorrow sounds great, by the way,” Sam said finally, smiling up at Elliott. “When should I come by?”

 

“Whenever you’d like. You’re sure it’s not a bother? I fear I’ve been taking up all of your time lately.”

 

Sam shrugged. “I was supposed to stay over at Seb’s tomorrow night, but it’s fine. I can blow him off; he won’t care.”

 

“You don’t need to do that, Sam.”

 

“Seriously, it’s okay. We were just going to get high and play Solarion Chronicles. I can do that whenever.”

 

“Still, he’s your best friend, isn’t he?” Elliott frowned. “I don’t want to get in the way of your other relationships. You and I can always try for another time.”

 

“It’s really not a big deal,” Sam assured him. “Seb blows me off for hookups all the time.”

 

Elliott felt childish for it, but hearing Sam reduce their relationship to a hookup like the ones Sebastian specialized in injured him a bit. Which was unfair, because what were they doing if _not_ hooking up? They weren’t having sex, sure, but they certainly weren’t dating either. In his experience, people that were dating weren’t scared of being seen in public together.

 

“Okay then,” he conceded, although he tried to perk himself up a bit to keep Sam from realizing that anything was wrong. “So what else would you like, other than lobster?”

 

Sam hummed and screwed his mouth up as he considered it. “Hm, I guess pizza doesn’t really go with lobster bisque, right?”

 

“I could make lobster pizza. I found a recipe online when I was looking around for ideas.”

 

Sam stopped in his tracks, looking as if Elliott had just revealed to him all the secrets of the universe. “Elliott,” he murmured, reaching out and grabbing his hand. “You are a perfect person.”

 

“I think that’s a little dramatic,” Elliott said with a surprised chuckle. He accepted Sam’s hand happily, though, and didn’t let it go until they arrived at Poppy’s front porch.

 

Leah greeted them at the door with a warm smile. “Good morning, boys! Hope you’re hungry.”

 

“Starved,” Sam grinned, winking at Elliott as Leah ushered them inside.

 

The house smelled of frying bacon, fresh bread, and sugar. All the curtains had been tied back and a pleasant breeze was running through the open windows. Unsurprisingly, there were flowers everywhere—some were on the dining table as decoration, but others were littered about the living room floor in bundles. Poppy was playing with arrangement ideas, it seemed. The television was on, playing that phony psychic show Elliott derided but Poppy swore by. According to the cloaked woman gesturing blindly around her crystal ball, there were pleasant surprises on the horizon.

 

Sam let out a low whistle, regarding the breakfast spread on the table. “Everything looks great, you guys.”

 

Poppy was sitting on the couch, scarlet hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She was wearing a comfy looking pair of sleeping shorts and a tank top underneath her flowy robe that matched Elliott’s. She flitted across the room and pulled both of them into a hug. “Thank you so much, Sam! Although you know I’m useless in the kitchen, so Leah did all the cooking. I was just in charge of making the place look pretty.”

 

“Mission accomplished,” Leah said, stopping to kiss Poppy’s forehead before walking to the stove and pulling a pan of hash browns off the heat. She flipped them over idly before glancing back to Sam and Elliott. “Make yourselves comfortable, this was the last thing I needed to finish.”

 

Poppy hopped up from the couch and clapped her hand onto Sam’s shoulder. “Actually, Sam, can you run next door to the shop with me really quickly? Jim Mayfair sent us the sweetest letter, and there are some adorable photos of us from the wedding that I want to give you.”

 

“Please tell me the photographer didn’t catch me dancing,” Sam groaned.

 

“He absolutely did,” Poppy giggled. “Air guitar and all.“

 

“I didn’t know you played the air guitar, Sam,” Elliott drawled, shooting an amused look his way.

 

Sam dug an elbow into Elliott’s ribs playfully before addressing Poppy. “Those are going straight in the shredder, Pops.”

 

Poppy rolled her eyes. “As if I wouldn’t make copies. But seriously, if I don’t give them to you now I’ll forget.”

 

They were halfway out the door before Leah turned away from the stove. “Don’t take too long, babe,” she called. “Everything’s ready.”

 

“Two minutes!” Poppy shouted back.

 

The door slammed behind them, and Leah smirked at Elliott before beginning to dig the hash browns out of the pan with her spatula. “Can you hand me a plate?” she asked.

 

“Of course.” Elliott crossed the room and pulled a dish from the cabinet, placing it on the counter next to Leah.

 

She gave him a small smile and scooped the potatoes onto it, dabbing at them with a paper towel to collect any extra oil. “We’re happy you were able to come by this morning,” she said. “Surprised, but happy.”

 

Elliott raised an eyebrow. “Is it that surprising? You know my schedule is hardly full. I can make time for breakfast with my friends.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Leah sang softly. “I haven’t really heard from you since we went swimming. And Poppy hasn’t either, outside of her dropping off your flower order. We just assumed you were busy with something important.”

 

Elliott tucked a strand of hair behind his ear restlessly, feeling very adolescent all of a sudden. “Ah, well. My phone’s been dead.”

 

“Really?” Leah asked, her tone making it clear that she was just humoring him for the sake of making him dance around the subject. “Then how have you been uploading Snapchats for the past two weeks?”

 

Elliott paled. “I don’t entirely…”

 

“You do know that when you post something to your story it means that everyone in your contacts can see it, right?” When Elliott just stared at Leah with a thinly veiled expression of horror, she continued. “You’re much better at taking selfies than I would have given you credit for. But honestly Elliott, you don’t think you’re leaning too hard on the flower crown filter?”

 

Elliott almost countered that he didn’t use the flower crown filter half as much as Sam used the dog filter, but decided that perhaps that admission wouldn’t help his case. Instead he simply coughed and went to pour himself a glass of orange juice from the carafe at the table.

 

“So,” he ventured, “my phone was legitimately dead. I suppose between now and then I did manage to charge it, however. Apologies.”

 

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Elliott. We’re both adults; you don’t owe me an explanation for how you’re spending your time.” The mischievous look in her eye appeared as she salted the dish and placed it on the table. “I guess Poppy and I were just curious if your sudden disappearance has had anything to do with why Sam called out sick from work three days last week.”

 

Taking a measured sip of his drink, Elliott was suddenly very interested in the wood hatching of Poppy’s ceiling. “I wouldn’t know,” he said finally. “I wasn’t aware Sam had been ill.”

 

“I know! Neither were we, until he called out. Which is so weird, because we’ve known him for this long, and Sam has never once gotten sick before.” She smiled at Elliott sweetly and passed him a platter of cinnamon rolls, giving him a good-natured shrug. “Just one of those weird things, I guess.”

 

Elliott knew there was no real point in getting defensive. She was simply being a curious friend. He could hardly imagine the sort of interrogation Sam was getting from Poppy next door, so he supposed he should just count himself lucky that he had gotten the more subtle of the pair.

 

“Yes, just one of those weird things,” he agreed. He took a seat at the table and motioned for Leah to do the same. “So, how’s your brother?”

 

Just like that, the pressure was off and Leah returned to her old self. Unbothered, unwilling to push further than Elliott was willing to go. “Same as always. Mary’s on a work trip right now, so he’s got the kids alone for a week.”

 

“Did he ever get around to reading that novel I sent him for his birthday?”

 

“You know Evan. He read the first few chapters and then bought ten new books on a whim. He’ll get back around to it eventually.”

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who reads so much but finishes so little,” Elliott said pleasantly.

 

“Well if he finishes anything it’ll be your book. He asks about it all the time. He’s demanding an autographed copy.”

 

Elliott smiled. “Somehow I think I can arrange that.”

 

They went back and forth about Evan and his family for a while until Poppy and Sam returned. Just as Elliott had guessed, it looked like Sam had been through a more intense round of questioning than he had. He still looked a little shell-shocked, although Poppy seemed particularly pleased with herself. Elliott wanted to pull Sam away and find out what Poppy had asked him and what Sam had told her. By the way she was looking at Elliott it seemed like she had at least learned _something_ new. But it was time to sit down and eat, so he would have to wait until later.

 

Almost as if there was an unspoken agreement between the four of them to avoid any further discussion of Sam and Elliott’s embarrassingly obvious relationship, breakfast moved forward comfortably. They spoke about Leah’s art projects, Poppy’s plans for the fall and winter weddings on her docket, and even the latest town gossip about Harvey and Penny—he had given her a promise ring that had moved Poppy to tears when she saw it. They even talked about Sam and his band’s next concert before the conversation inevitably turned to Elliott.

 

“Any news on the book?” Poppy asked happily, refilling his glass.

 

“Yes, actually. Christine sent me a message the other night saying that she’s finished her edits and is ready to pass it back to me. We just need to meet this weekend to go over things first.”

 

“Gosh, that’s so exciting!” Poppy reached across the table to pat Elliott’s cheek, almost knocking over her glass as she did so. “Is she coming out to the valley?”

 

“Coming out here would be a bit too difficult for her, I’m afraid. I asked around, and it looks like the bus transmission is still giving Pam trouble. She won’t be able to run the route out to Zuzu until she gets a mechanic to take a look at it. I know it’s an imposition, but I was hoping you or Leah could drive me there instead.”

 

The two shared a look before Poppy turned back to Elliott with a sympathetic frown. “You know that normally I’d love to, hon, but this weekend isn’t going to work.”

 

“Are you guys going somewhere?” Sam chimed in.

 

Leah slipped her arm around Poppy’s waist and leaned into her, plucking a strawberry out of the bowl with her free hand. “Just camping in the woods.”

 

“We’re turning our phones off, closing the shop for the weekend, and going dead to the world for a bit,” Poppy explained. “Shane’s going to look after the animals until we get back.”

 

“Which would make it a bit difficult for you to drive me out to the city,” Elliott supplied. “I understand. Any special reason for the getaway?”

 

It was almost imperceptible, but Poppy’s bottom lip quivered slightly as she quietly sucked in a breath. Leah squeezed her waist tighter.

 

Understanding didn’t hit Elliott right away, but it did for Sam. “Oh,” he said softly, putting down his fork and looking up at Poppy with clear eyes. “It’s the anniversary already?”

 

Poppy nodded, reaching up to tighten her ponytail and trying to lighten her expression as best she could. “Yeah. So Leah and I thought it might be nice to just get away from things for a while. Clear my head, you know?”

Elliott had been initially confused by the use of the word ‘anniversary.’ She and Leah had been married in the fall, not the summer, and even if they were celebrating early, it didn’t explain why Poppy seemed upset about it. But then it clicked: Poppy’s father.

 

“I’m so sorry, Poppy,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have made plans without asking you first. Take all the time that you need. Really, I’m sorry.”

 

Poppy waved his apology away. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie. I’d hate for you to miss your meeting, though. I’m obviously not going to be using the Jeep while we’re away, so you can take it up yourself if you want.”

 

“You know that I never learned how to drive,” Elliott reminded her gently. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’ll just go up some other time.”

 

“Damn, I always forget that,” she pouted. The spark in her eye returned as she fell into her favorite pastime: teasing Elliott. “In my defense, how does a grown man not know how to drive a car?”

 

“That’s what happens when you grow up with a driver on your family’s payroll,” Leah said with a sly smile.

 

“A tragedy indeed,” Elliott replied. He wanted to move off the subject—unlike Poppy and Leah, Sam didn’t know much about Elliott’s upbringing, and he would prefer for it to stay that way.

 

Sam’s voice cut through Elliott’s discomfort.

 

“I can drive him!” he blurted out, a bit loudly. He glanced at Elliott before going back to picking at his plate. “I mean, I can take you up. I’ve driven the Jeep loads of times, so it’s not a big deal.”

 

The implication of the offer wasn’t lost on Elliott. It was one thing to steal away for a few hours in Elliott’s cabin, but what Sam was suggesting—an entire day trip with just the two of them—sounded very much like a date.

 

Elliott cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of you, but—”

 

“I love it!” Poppy interrupted, clapping her hands together. “Great idea, Sam. You can just take the keys after your shift on Thursday morning. Leave them in the mailbox when you get back.”

 

“Sounds good,” Sam said, voice muffled through his mouthful of potatoes.

 

Leah caught Elliott’s eye. “Don’t look so worried. Sam’s a better driver than I am, anyway.”

 

Poppy grinned. “He drives a little slow for my taste, but you’ll be in good hands.”

 

“I drive the speed limit, Pops,” Sam quipped. “Which is why you have three speeding tickets pending in Zuzu County traffic court right now and I don’t.”

 

Elliott thought of protesting further, but quickly decided against it. After all, wasn’t this what he wanted? More time with Sam, out in the open where no one knew who they were? He would be an idiot to try to stop that from happening. And besides, Sam’s offer seemed to have turned Poppy’s mood back around. He couldn’t very well trample on that now, especially seeing as he had no real reason to.

 

“Thank you, Sam,” he said. “I really appreciate it.”

 

“No problem.”

 

Under the table, Sam slid his leg and pressed against Elliott’s. It was comforting and intimate in a sickly sweet way. Elliott hid his smile by taking another sip from his drink. Perhaps the psychic had been correct about pleasant surprises.

 

*

 

Elliott arrived at Poppy’s early Saturday morning feeling jittery. It was a pleasant day; the blistering heat of summer had run its course, and the first of fall was only days away, leaving the air cool and fragrant. Still, Elliott wasn’t able to keep his mind from running the regular gambit of nerves that it always did as he approached new milestones in his book’s publishing process. Christine had read his story. All of it. Run through it in red ink and… enjoyed it? Hopefully. There was no way to tell until he got to Zuzu. He crossed the front of Poppy’s house and went around to the the side driveway.

 

Poppy and Leah were long gone by now—they had packed up Thursday evening and left for their trip with an indefinite return date. They would need to come back at some point, of course. Poppy’s business could only go unattended for so long. For now, though, she had no weddings or events on the schedule for at least a few weeks, and Shane had already been paid handsomely in advance to watch the animals. Elliott thought that the trip was a good idea. Poppy’s mood rode at an almost constant high, but when it crashed it took a lot of effort for her to pull herself up again. Very few things affected her enough to get her to that headspace, but remembering the death of her father was certainly one of them. Elliott remembered how confused Leah had been the first time one of Poppy’s depressions hit—she had been panicky and desperate to do anything to fix things, worried that she had done something to set it off. She knew better than to take those things personally now, and she had grown adept at providing Poppy with the kind of comfort she needed. To Elliott, that was the inherent beauty of a marriage: working hard and learning to understand a person as intimately as you understood yourself.

 

Elliott heard that Sam had beaten him to the farm before he actually saw him: the recorded sound of pounding bass and guitar riffs was recognizable enough, although he couldn’t place the band. Turning onto the driveway, Elliott saw his chauffeur for the day. Sam was seated on the hood of Poppy’s bright pink Jeep, turning his face to catch the sun. He had rolled the windows down and was blasting his music from the CD player.

 

Sam turned to look at Elliott when he heard him walking up. He smiled and leaned further back on the hood, looking Elliott up and down. “You’re late,” he called out.

 

“I thought I was rather early, actually.” Elliott circled around to the front of the Jeep, only slightly embarrassed at how his heart was already speeding up at the mere sight of Sam. He stopped in front of the bumper and brought his hands up to rest at the top of Sam’s thighs, parting them so that he could stand between them. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Fine. I was up pretty late with Abi at the saloon, so I passed right out when I got home.”

 

“Just Abigail? I thought Sebastian liked to join you on Fridays.”

 

“Nah, he stayed home. He’s been sort of weird around me lately.”

 

Elliott was interested, but didn’t want to pry. He wasn’t sure that he understood Sam’s friendship with Sebastian well enough to comment on it anyway. It had never made much sense to him, to be honest. He dragged the palms of his hands up Sam’s thighs to grab at his hips, sliding him down the slope of the hood until his pelvis was pressing against Elliott’s.

 

“Well you weren’t up unreasonably late, I hope. You’re still okay to drive?”

 

Sam wrapped his arms around Elliott’s neck and kissed him deeply, sucking gently at his bottom lip before pulling back. “More than okay,” he said.

 

Head spinning, Elliott had to briefly remind himself exactly why taking Sam in the open and on top of Poppy’s car would be, in fact, a bad idea. He wasn’t entirely sure that Sam would object if he tried, but they had places to be. Gingerly, he hooked his hands underneath Sam and lifted him off the hood, ignoring Sam’s groan of protest as he placed him on the ground.

 

“We should get on the road, then,” he said brightly. He crossed to the driver’s side door and opened it, motioning for Sam to get in.

 

“Fancy,” Sam said with a smirk as he climbed up onto the seat. “No one’s opened my door for me before.”

 

Sam had said it lightly, but Elliott felt a twinge of sadness all the same, largely because he knew it was probably true. How no one had properly romanced this beautiful man before now, Elliott would never know. He answered Sam with a quick peck on the lips before closing the door and getting in on his own side.

 

Elliott felt his nerves about Christine wash away as he reclined in his seat and watched Sam turn the key in the ignition. He didn’t mind the fact that he very well may have to hear painful criticisms about his book for hours today. He didn’t mind the fact that he would have to be driven around like a child waiting on their learner’s permit. He didn’t even mind the blaringly loud rock music that would no doubt leave his ears ringing sooner than later. All that mattered in that moment was that he had an entire day of Sam’s company ahead of him.

 

It was going to be a good day.

 

Leah had been correct; Sam _was_ a good driver. Getting a ride from Poppy meant that Elliott needed to check his weak stomach at the door. For as much as he depended on her to get to the city when he needed it, he had never quite gotten used to her brand of driving. In a Poppy Daniels car, speed limits were simply hilarious suggestions, every other driver they passed was angling for a drag race, and turn signals were given through a flick of a hand out of the window rather than the actual switch.

 

Riding with Sam was a marked improvement. Elliott wasn’t fearing for his life, for one. Sam seemed much more amenable to traffic laws than his employer. But there were other things, perhaps equally as important, that made the trip especially enjoyable. Sam’s singing was one of them. In a gesture that Elliott found endlessly adorable, Sam admitted that the CD he was playing had been curated and burned by him specifically for their ride up that day. As such, he knew every word, chord progression, and key change, and he tried his best to sing them all at once. It was nice to hear Sam’s singing voice outside of the context of his band’s performances, and Elliott happily resigned himself to watch Sam croon out each track and try his best to join in when he could.

 

The hand holding was admittedly nice, too. As soon as they had cleared out of town and gotten onto the highway, Sam had slipped his hand away from the gear shift and let it rest on Elliott’s knee. After a track or two his hand moved up further to settle over Elliott’s, who gladly laced their fingers together.  They stayed like that for practically the entire two-hour drive.

 

Elliott also appreciated the conversation. Sam had a million questions—about Elliott’s novel, things he liked to do in Zuzu, new books he was reading, and the music he was currently listening to. Sometimes he tried to veer into more personal questions about Elliott’s family and life before moving to the valley, but Elliott was able to sidestep giving any answers that would give too much away. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to be evasive, but he was acting out of an almost instinctual sense of self-preservation. This fling wasn’t going to last, despite everything about today seeming like a date and not a hookup. Elliott wanted to mitigate the fallout that would inevitably come when things fizzled out. That time would be easier for the both of them if there were some things about Elliott that Sam didn’t know. Elliott wasn’t sitting on any earth-shattering secrets, but his family was a sensitive subject, and he didn’t want to go through the emotional work of opening up to Sam about it if he was going to be gone soon. It would hurt too much.

 

*

 

Zuzu City was the same as always: loud, bright, and absolutely packed with people. As Elliott weaved his way through what seemed like an endless throng of sweaty and laughing tourists with Sam trailing behind him, he tried to figure out where exactly they were. Christine had sent him the address of her office ahead of time, but Elliott had never been there before and always managed to get lost in big cities.

 

Just as he got knocked in the shoulder by a passing construction worker, he felt Sam’s hot hand clasp at his own. He looked back to see Sam take a few quick steps forward so that they were side by side again.

 

“The crowds are crazy today,” Sam said. “I don’t want to lose you.”

 

“Best to hold on tight, then.”

 

Sam smiled and leaned against Elliott as they pushed ahead. “Are you doing okay? You seem kind of tense.”

 

Elliott sighed and shoved his other hand in his pocket. “I’m fine. I simply have a hard time with crowds. And truth be told, I’m more than a bit nervous about this meeting.”

 

“I thought you said you liked Christine.”

 

“I do,” Elliott said quickly. “She’s just very good at her job, and her job is to mercilessly pick my work apart. I’m just worried for the sake of my ego.”

 

“Would it help if I told you how much I loved it again?”

 

Elliott chuckled and squeezed Sam’s hand. “It might, but maybe we should save that for the car. You know getting compliments makes me want to kiss you.”

 

“Really?” Sam asked, sarcasm lacing his voice. “I hadn’t noticed.”

 

Elliott found the office much faster than he would have if he had been alone. It helped to have a local on his arm, even if Sam hadn’t lived in the city for years. The rhythm and layout of the city still made sense to him, and despite never having been to Christine’s office before he found it easily.

 

“Here we are,” he said, gesturing towards the building. It was all windows at its face, and Elliott could see colorful and oddly shaped furniture decorating the waiting room. The whole building used that modern architectural style that tried to project a veneer of corporate approachability. It looked like there was probably an office fitness room inside that no one used.

 

Elliott peered inside and finally let Sam’s hand go. “I should get inside. You won’t be too bored while I’m gone? I have no idea how long this will take, exactly.”

 

Sam shook his head. “Some old school friends of mine actually live around here, so we’re going to hang for a while and maybe grab a drink. Plus it’s the city. There’s always stuff to do.”

 

“I suppose you’re right.”

 

“Seriously, don’t worry about me. Just call when you’re out and I’ll come meet you.”

 

“I will.”

 

Elliott hovered by the entrance for a second, trying to build up the courage to walk inside. Sam seemed to sense his discomfort.

 

“Hey,” he said. Angling up just barely, he pulled Elliott into a quick kiss. “It’s gonna go great.”

 

Elliott brought Sam’s hand up and pressed a kiss into his palm. “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

 

‘Soon’ turned out to be closer to four hours.

 

Elliott walked out of the same building feeling like he’d just done a speedrun of an entire graduate level English course. Christine had made her edits, to be sure. He thumbed through the manuscript in his hands and reread notes in the margin that he had already discussed in length. There was quite a lot to consider.

 

His grammar usage was, in her words, frequently flawed. His writing style had a capacity for great charm, but tended to derail into inelegance when he let his mind wander. Some characters were dynamic while others seemed like unrefined cut-outs of what they were meant to be. But, all in all, she hadn’t hated it. In fact, she’d liked it. _If we published it today, I would give it a seven out of ten._ She had said, regarding him from over the lenses of her librarian glasses. _But I think you’re better than a seven. Listen to me and we’ll get you there._

 

It was just the kick that Elliott needed. He felt good.

 

He felt even better when he looked up from his pages to see Sam waiting on a bench on the sidewalk. He hopped up as soon as Elliott came into view, eyes expectant.

 

“So?” he asked. “How was it?”

 

“Thorough,” Elliott said with a laugh. “But I shouldn’t have been so nervous. I’m actually excited to get back home and get to work. What do you think? Lunch and then we hit the road?”

 

Sam nodded, looking pensive. “We could do that.”

 

“Why am I sensing an ‘or’ coming up?”

 

 _“Or_ we could get lunch, do something fun, and then go home.”

 

“Did you have anything specific in mind?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said, an excited grin cutting across his face. “Do you like old movies?”

 

*

 

Sam and Elliott pulled up to the lot of the drive-in theater at the tail end of the trailers and parked in the very back row, reversing into their spot so that the back of the Jeep was facing the screen. For a weekend night showing, the crowd was much smaller than Elliott had expected. Maybe there were just very few Hitchcock fans in Zuzu. Or, more likely, most of the locals had different ideas of how Saturday nights should be spent. For his part, Elliott couldn’t think of a better place that Sam could have taken him.

 

Elliott waited outside while Sam set up; he popped open the back so that they could see the movie, folded down the back row of seats, and made things comfortable. It wasn’t until he pulled a bundle of blankets and a bottle of wine out of the cargo section that Elliott realized just how far ahead Sam had been planning for this detour.

 

Seeing the surprise on Elliott’s face, he smiled and gave the bottle a small shake. “I figured you might want to go home right after your meeting, but still. Better to be prepared, yeah?”

 

Elliott had long since stopped trying to convince himself that today wasn’t a date. It was ultimately useless to try to figure out what was going on with him and Sam, tonight or any other time. Date, hookup, tryst, whatever. He didn’t care anymore. All he knew was that Sam was perfect and he was going to enjoy the time they had before they needed to go home and go back to pretending to be strangers. With that in mind he crawled into the car, resting against the back of the seat and letting Sam cuddle up under his arm. He threw one of the blankets over them and melted into the warmth of it all.

“This is nice,” Sam said, his hand coming to rest over Elliott’s stomach.

 

Elliott kissed the top of his head, breathing in the faint apple scent of his hair. “That’s an understatement. Thank you for today.”

 

Sam looked up at him with slightly raised eyebrows. He could probably sense that there were things Elliott was holding back from saying. Which there were, of course. When it came to Sam, there were things that Elliott was always holding back from saying, _I love you_ being one of them.

 

“Anytime,” Sam answered in a hushed tone. “It feels good to be out of town for a bit.”

 

Elliott started to agree, but the projection screen flickered and grabbed their attention. The Universal Studios orchestration kicked up in volume, and the movie began without any further preamble. Elliott felt a smile start to creep across his face as he saw the _Rear Window_ title card come into view.

 

Sam fidgeted against him, trying to get as wrapped up in Elliott as he could. “I’ve never seen this before. Have you?”

 

“More times than I can remember,” Elliott said fondly. “My mother loves Hitchcock. I grew up on his movies.”

 

“I’ve only seen the one about killer birds. It made Abigail cry, but I thought it was pretty boring.”

 

“You need to expand your movie library, Sam. These are classics.”

 

Sam shrugged and ran his finger in an aimless loop over Elliott’s shirt. “I guess you should teach me, then.”

 

Elliott laughed. “I’d be happy to. We can start with this one. Pay attention, Grace Kelly is about to show up.”

 

As it turned out, Sam wasn’t a fan of watching movies in silence. He would sit still for a few minutes before changing positions, making jokes about a particular scene, or simply trying to start up a conversation about something totally unrelated. Although in fairness, the wine probably wasn’t helping. Elliott might have been annoyed at all the interruptions if he wasn’t so enamored with everything Sam had to say. About thirty minutes in he gave up on trying to get Sam to follow the finer details of the plot. He would fill in the gaps along the way when it was required.

 

“I can’t believe summer’s almost over,” Sam said after a while.

 

“Good riddance. I’m looking forward to being able to walk outside without sweating through my shirt. And fall in the valley is beautiful.”

 

Sam nuzzled into the crook of Elliott’s shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s been a good summer. I’m just kind of sad to see it go, is all.”

 

Elliott felt very present in that moment, struck by the realization that everything he had been through with Sam - everything that meant something, at least - had all taken place in the span of a single summer. Every flirtation, every sleepless night, every kiss. He had come into that summer an exhausted and lonely man. But somehow he wasn’t leaving it that way.

 

“Well,” he said, softer than before, “at least we’ll give it a good send-off. Demetrius was telling Poppy the other day that the moonlight jellies will be out in greater numbers this year. It should be beautiful.”

 

Sam let out a sharp breath. “I completely forgot about the festival.”

 

“It’s only a few days away.” Elliott shifted his shoulder and began to rub a circle between Sam’s shoulder blades. “You know what’s funny? It happens right outside my cabin, but I can’t even remember seeing you there last year.”

 

Sam flashed a mischievous grin. “I was definitely there. I pushed Seb into the ocean to get him back for doing it to me the year before.”

 

“Will you be getting up to more of the same this year?”

 

“I wasn’t planning on it. My brother still gets excited about the jellies, so I’ll probably just hang out with him. Things are a bit tense at home right now with my dad coming back from deployment soon. I’m trying to keep Vince off mom’s hands when I can.”

 

He didn’t entirely know what the appropriate thing was to say. Sam normally avoided talking about his parents as much as Elliott did. “I’m sorry to hear that things are stressful for you at home,” Elliott murmured.

 

“Don’t be.”

 

Elliott glanced down, but couldn’t see Sam’s face. He was looking in the general direction of the projection screen, although Elliott knew perfectly well that neither of them were paying attention to the movie. He tugged Sam’s shirt up so that he could better massage his back. Sam shuddered underneath the touch and leaned in closer.

 

The tension in that moment was palpable, with both men teetering on the border of wanting more but neither one wanting to be the first to make a move. Thankfully, Sam was the first to break the stalemate. After a few minutes of clinging to Elliott underneath the blanket, he opened his mouth and licked at Elliott’s neck with a delicious slowness.

 

“Is this okay?” he asked, hand beginning to roam further down until it stopped at Elliott’s belt.

 

Elliott’s eyes snapped shut as he felt Sam’s teeth brush against the tender skin of his throat. Really, they shouldn’t be doing this here. Not in front of James Stewart and Grace Kelly, and certainly not surrounded by other people who could see everything if they just decided to turn around. He almost said so, but then he felt the hardness of Sam’s erection pressing against his leg. He whispered a yes into Sam’s ear before consciously deciding to do so. Caution be damned, then.

 

As soon as he had permission Sam bit down on Elliott’s neck, causing him to stifle back a moan. He kept nibbling up towards Elliott’s ear, seemingly determined to leave a mark. Elliott was slightly concerned at how little he cared about the idea of returning home with hickeys.

 

Sam quickly undid Elliott’s pants under the privacy of the blankets, and began to work along the shaft of his cock with his trademark eagerness. Elliott threw his head back, unable to believe how good that simple touch felt. Sam whispered something to him, but he couldn’t make it out over his own breathing.

 

“Sam,” he whispered, “stay with me tonight.”

 

Instantly, any movement Sam had been making stilled. He pulled back from Elliott’s neck, face red and hair mussed. Elliott’s cock suddenly felt absurdly hard now that it wasn’t being handled anymore. The rush of sensory deprivation took Elliott a moment to process.

 

“What?” Sam asked, surprise written all over his face.

 

Elliott realized his mistake too late. He had never explicitly asked Sam to spend the night before. He had told Sam that he was welcome to, but after the first mention of it he never brought it up again. He had wanted it, of course. Sam slipping out of his cabin late at night always stung more than he let on, but there was an underlying understanding that staying the night - sharing a bed - was too much for Sam. Too much like a proper relationship. He had never asked to, and so Elliott had never offered again. Until now. Idiot.

 

Elliott sat straighter, adjusting his pants and doing the zipper back up. “I’m sorry, I know that was jarring. I simply meant...if you’d like to stay with me in my cabin, I would like nothing more. But I shouldn’t have asked you like that.”

 

Sam’s expression was strained, like he was struggling with himself to find the right words. He took a deep breath before responding. “I want to,” he said, voice surprisingly clear. “I really do. I just - that’s a lot. For tonight.”

 

Elliott held Sam’s hand reassuringly. “I completely understand. Please don’t feel like I’m rushing you. Forget I asked.”

 

“No,” he insisted. “I’m serious, I want to. Let’s just, I don’t know, pick a day?”

 

“Just tell me when.”

 

Sam thought about it for a moment. “How about next week? After the festival. I’ll just go back to your cabin instead of going home. I’ll say I’m staying with Seb.”

 

“That sounds perfect,” Elliott said, smiling despite his pounding heart. “And please stop me if this is too much, but I should ask ahead of time. I know that you and I haven’t taken things...all the way. At risk of being crass.”

 

“You mean sex.”

 

Elliott broke eye contact, embarrassed that he was even talking about this now. “I’m perfectly happy with how far we’ve gone. Don’t think that I’m not, Sam. But if you _wanted_ to, I just want you to know that I’m open to it. I know it’s a big step, so don’t rush into this for my sake. I’m absolutely content with where we are.”

 

Sam just stared at him for a few moments, and Elliott hated himself for asking. This was too much, too fast. The last thing he wanted was to scare Sam away or push him into doing things he didn’t want to do.

 

Sam looked down at their intertwined hands before leaning forward and catching Elliott in a kiss. “Okay,” he said simply. “I’m ready.”

 

Elliott could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He thought numbly that his third Dance of the Moonlight Jellies was liable to be his most memorable yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey babes! We took a little break for the holidays but we are BACK. And we have a bit of news we'd like to share. If you love Literary Pursuits and you love how ohsocyanide and I work together as a team (which, come on, you should!) then you are going to love our latest endeavor! We recently started writing Rule 62 together, a fic about Shane and the witty and wonderful farmer Graham. We are 1 chapter in and so excited about it, so we would love for you to check it out if you love that sweet, sweet Shane content. 
> 
> \- mercymain <3


	11. Chapter 11

Sebastian had tried to ignore all the warning signs.

 

They had been there, sure, but he’d tried to ignore them all the same: the constant glances at his phone, the furrow between his brow, going so far as to check for texts between sets. Sam was acting like one of the girls Sebastian so frequently dealt with, and it cast him in an entirely new light. Sam Underhill, Sebastian’s best friend, was the pining type.

 

It was all enough to make Sebastian uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite place.

 

He had told Sam to hold that Elliott Walton son of a bitch at arm’s-length, and he’d gone and caught feelings for him. Sleeping together was one thing; sitting around and waiting on a text that would likely never come was another.

 

It had started before they’d even left for their set Friday night. They were doing a show out at Ligo Beach, a sort of goodbye to summer. It would likely be one of the last shows Next Stop Nowhere put on for the year; at the rate they were going, Sebastian was wondering if it would be the last show they ever put on. Abi and Nate were talking about getting a place together, Sebastian was planning on moving to the city in the spring, and Sam?

 

Sam had been busy falling in love over the course of the summer.

 

Sam could deny it all he wanted, but Sebastian saw the signs clear as day: Sam was fucking smitten, completely smashed over the recluse on the beach, and Sebastian had been blindsided by it. He was happy for Sam, sure—if anyone deserved a consistently decent fuck and a warm smile to come home to, it was Sam—but Sebastian didn’t understand the appeal of Elliott Walton or falling in love and committing yourself to failure in general.

 

But he digressed.

 

What the issue boiled down to was that Elliott had essentially pulled one of Sebastian’s favorite cards: you get tired of the person you’re fucking, so you quit texting back. It was shitty, it was shady as hell, but it worked every time. It was a surefire way for a girl to get the message that you were no longer interested without having to get into the messy details of _actually_ ending things. It was easy and efficient, and Sebastian liked it—unless, of course, the person being avoided was his best friend.

 

Sam had texted Elliott before their set in Ligo trying to make plans for tonight, and he’d never gotten a response. Sebastian knew it was an issue because Sam had mentioned it to him, and Sam typically made a concerted effort to _not_ involve Sebastian in his love life. Sebastian wanted Sam to go to Elliott’s when they got home, talk to him about it—again, Sam was stupidly happy and a happy Sam was much better than a sad Sam—but he refused. Instead Sam went home, tail tucked between his legs and his ears red with frustration. Sebastian had, naturally enough, gotten pissed enough to decide to take matters into his own hands.

 

Sebastian was still trying to convince himself that was he was doing was sensible in the least as he put a fist up to Elliott Walton’s door and knocked. He sucked on his cigarette hard, paper singeing, and blew out a puff of smoke. He told himself he wasn’t nervous about coming face-to-face with the guy who’d been sucking his best friend off for the last month; he was just pissed.

 

He was still trying to figure out why, exactly, he was pissed when the front door swung open.

 

“Sam, you haven’t knocked since—”

 

Elliott’s voice, low and lilting with its city accent, cut off in surprise. Behind him, candles were lit and burning around the cabin; Sebastian could smell the mingling scents of coconut and vanilla and something not unlike Sam’s cologne in the air. Elliott had been planning on Sam stopping by after the show.

 

Why hadn’t Sam come, then?

 

Elliott’s hair hung loose and messy to his waist; he was wearing a pair of flowy pants and a tattered-looking Blink-182 shirt that Sebastian vaguely recognized from the year he and Sam had driven four hours to see them play at Warped Tour. Sebastian blinked in surprise. He wasn’t sure _what_ , specifically, he’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t Elliott Walton wearing one of Sam’s most prized possessions as a pair of fucking pajamas.

 

Elliott opened his mouth to speak but before he could, Sebastian blurted, “He wanted you there, you know.”

 

Elliott closed his mouth, slight frown turning down the corners of his lips. If he was surprised that Sebastian knew about whatever was happening between Sam and him, he didn't show it. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I didn’t want to draw any more attention to us than what was necessary.”

 

“Fuck that.” Sebastian took one last drag off his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, crushing it under his heel. He blew the smoke in Elliott’s direction just to be an asshole; Elliott wrinkled his nose at the smell but said nothing. “You couldn’t have made some excuse to watch him play? No one in that crowd tonight mattered to him, man. You should have fucking been there.”

             

Elliott’s voice was cool and clipped, tone short. “Don’t you think I wanted to be there, Sebastian? Had Sam explicitly said that he wanted me there tonight, I would have dropped everything to come to the show. As it stands, he didn’t ask me to come.”

 

Sebastian fished another cigarette from his pack with trembling fingers—half empty, he needed to buy more soon—and shoved it between his teeth. He flicked the lighter with one hand and cupped the other around the end of the smoke as he lit, dragging in that first inhale sharply. “It doesn’t matter if he asked you to come or not. He shouldn’t have had to ask you.”

 

Elliott’s shifted his stance slightly, resting his hands on his hips and leveling Sebastian with a look. “Is that something you appreciate your hookups doing? Randomly showing up at your concerts?”

 

Sebastian choked on an inhale, eyes watering at the sharp burn in his throat. “Plenty of my hookups are found _at_ our shows, for one,” Sebastian coughed. “And for another, he’s not just some hookup. He’s better than that; he _deserves_ better than that.”

 

It had taken Sebastian a long time to realize. Even now, coming to terms with it was still something Sebastian grappled at because he simply didn’t understand it. Not now, when Sam was actively seeing someone, but especially not when Sebastian had been shoving girls at Sam as quickly as he could find them. He thought Sam had required fulfillment of a physical need, but he was wrong. What Sam had needed all along had been the emotional fulfillment he was so clearly getting out of whatever was happening with Elliott. Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about Elliott fulfilling that particular need for Sam, but he knew for a fact that Sam being anything but happy would fucking kill him. Sam, of all people, deserved to be happy.

 

Emotional fulfillment in relationships was something Sebastian was neither comfortable nor familiar with.

 

Sebastian could practically see the thoughts processing in Elliott’s mind, the words pressing at the seam of his lips begging to spill out. There was something there, something cutting to be said as a sort of defense mechanism, yet Elliott held his tongue. What he said instead surprised Sebastian.

 

“I’m completely enamored with him, Sebastian. Of course I know he deserves better than that. I _want_ to give him better than that, but I can only work with what he’s willing to give me.”

 

Sebastian scrubbed a hand through his hair and tipped his head back, watching as the smoke trailing from the tip of his cigarette listed away with the breeze blowing in from the sea. He felt frustrated, even more so now with Elliott’s honest admission. He was _completely enamored_ with Sam; who the fuck said that? Who used words like that?

 

Why couldn’t he just say what he meant, what he was miserably failing to hide from everyone _but_ his best friend?

 

“He texted you tonight asking if he could come over. You couldn’t work with that?”

 

Elliott’s eyes narrowed; he reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear. He made a show of glancing behind him to the scene he’d obviously set up: the candles, the dimmed lights, the fluffed bedclothes and pillows. “What do you think?”

 

Sebastian didn’t particularly want to think about why Elliott was setting the mood in such a way, much less why a small jar of coconut oil was on a warmer atop Elliott’s nightstand. Elliott was obviously prepared for Sam’s arrival; he was expecting him when Sebastian knocked.

 

Where did the discrepancy lie?

 

“He’s the one that never got a response to his offer,” Sebastian said. He flicked the ash off the tip of his cigarette, took another drag.

 

Elliott stiffened, brow creasing in contemplation. He turned suddenly and disappeared inside the cabin, reappearing with what looked to be an old model iPhone. Sebastian was almost offended by the dinosaur-looking piece of technology, but he kept his mouth firmly shut as Elliott frowned down at the screen. After several beats of silence, Elliott looked up, dismay casting over his previously thoughtful features. “The message failed to deliver.”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sebastian put the cigarette between his teeth, snatched the phone from Elliott’s hands, and typed out a harried message before hitting send. “You really should upgrade, you know,” he said as he turned the phone over in his hands. The screen was pristine, corners free of cracks, but the software on it was lagging. No wonder the message hadn’t sent.

 

He tossed the phone back to Elliott, caught somewhere between relief at the fact that Elliott hadn’t been avoiding Sam and annoyance with himself for intervening in the first place. Elliott certainly didn’t deserve any of Sebastian’s help. He was old enough to know how fucking around worked; he didn’t need a guy ten years his junior giving him sexting tips. Sam’s need of assistance at this point was even questionable. Sebastian had tried to tell him time and time again to remove his feelings from the equation, and where had that landed him?

Another cigarette dropped to the doorstep; Sebastian watched as he crushed the cherry beneath his heel. “He’s going to be expecting you in the next ten minutes or so,” he advised as he turned to walk away, “You should get going if you don’t want him to be disappointed again.” Sebastian turned on his heel and stepped back out onto the sand, hands tucked deep into his hoodie pockets. He paused when Elliott spoke his name.

 

“Sebastian,” he said, tone gentle and embarrassed, “thank you.”

 

“Trust me,” Sebastian said, not looking back as he resumed his previous pace. “I didn’t do this for you.”

 

*

 

Sam took Vincent to the Dance of the Moonlight Jellies alone.

 

Jodi hadn’t come—she was busy preparing for Kent’s impending homecoming—so Sam had agreed to take Vincent on his own. Penny had dropped into the space next to Vincent when she arrived, new promise ring glittering prettily beneath the moon. Harvey had an emergency in the next town over, so he wouldn’t be able to make it. There was a shared loneliness in watching something so beautiful without the one person you really wanted to watch it with, Sam thought.

 

Penny understood that.

 

There was a bite in the air that had crept into the evenings over the past week or so. The first day of autumn was tomorrow, with it would come lower temperatures, rainy days, and Vincent’s return to a regular school schedule. Sam pushed the sleeves of his jacket back down over his arms and reached over to zip Vincent’s jacket up.

 

They sat in their normal spot, bare feet hanging over the edge of the pier as they waited patiently for the night sky to dim dark enough to see the jellies floating in the water below. Vincent held a pair of binoculars in his small hands and swung his legs back and forth, happy to be there with Sam and Penny. Guiltily, Sam glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Poppy, Leah, and Elliott setting up their spot alongside the shoreline. They were later this year than normal; typically, Poppy was one of the first on the beach and ready for the festival. Elliott looked up and met Sam’s gaze; he offered a smile and waved hello.

 

Sam smiled and waved, stomach flopping painfully. He was reminded of the night before, Elliott tapping gently on his window and clambering into his bed in a mess of elbows and knees. They’d curled around one another, petted at each other’s backs until the wee hours of the morning when Sam’s eyes grew heavy and he couldn’t properly form a sentence without slurring. Elliott had apologized for the mixup with the texts and vowed to call about an upgrade the next day; he’d fallen asleep next to Sam and slipped back out the window just as the first of Poppy’s chickens began to caw.

 

Seeing him now, Sam realized it was entirely possible to miss someone even when they were little more than ten feet away.

 

Leah and Poppy beamed at him from where they were wrapped around one another; Poppy winked and blew Sam and handful of kisses. Rolling his eyes, Sam caught them good-naturedly and pretended to stick them in his pocket. Poppy’s laughter was audible even from where Sam sat.

 

Pressing her thumbnail into a groove on a wooden slat of the pier, Penny said, “Poppy’s great, isn’t she?”

 

“Yeah, she is.” Sam leaned back on his hands and stared out at the sea. The candle boats had floated far enough out that the jellies should have been lured in by the flickering light; Sam watched and waited. He could almost see a glowing in the distance, but his eyes tended to play tricks on him when it came to the jellies. Even if he did see them, he’d wait until Vincent saw them first. Sam could remember the excitement of being the first to see the jellies, and he wanted Vince to revel in that for as long as he could.

 

“Miss Poppy’s my favorite, besides Mama and Jas and you two,” Vincent said. “She doesn’t make very good cookies, but sometimes she lets me sit on her lap and drive the Jeep!”

 

“She does _what?_ ”

 

“Vincent! You’re not supposed to tell everything you know,” Penny chided. “That’s how you get yourself into trouble.”

 

His face crumpled. “Am I in trouble for driving the Jeep?”

 

Sam sighed in defeat. The responsible part of him said that Vincent needed some sort of reprimand for driving—seriously, what six-year-old did that?—but the other part of him, the part that knew Poppy, knew it would do no good. She wanted children so badly it was a physical ache; if spoiling Vincent fulfilled even a fraction of that, Sam couldn’t say anything to her. She wouldn’t do anything that would endanger his life, and Vincent’s driving was probably safer than hers, anyways.

 

Sam slung an arm around Vincent’s shoulders and pulled him into his side. “No, but I’d rather you didn’t make a habit of it. Think you could manage that?”

 

“I can try,” Vincent said, voice wobbly. He relaxed into Sam’s side.

 

Penny patted Vincent’s knee. To Sam, she said, “Leah and Elliott are both wonderful as well. I never spoke with Leah much before she married Poppy, but Elliott and I have been close since he moved to town.”

 

Sam remained silent, wary of the direction the conversation was headed in. Penny was whip-smart, and she’d been present the afternoon Sam and Poppy had delivered the peonies. It was likely she’d picked up on the tension between Elliott and him. If anyone in town were to pick up on what was happening between Sam and Elliott of their own accord, Sam would put an entire week’s pay on it being Penny.

 

“I apologize for being nosy,” Penny forged on, “but I did notice you and Elliott seemed to be a bit friendlier as of late. Is that—”

 

“There’s a jelly!” Vincent crowed. Eyes fixing on a point out at sea, he jabbed a finger in the direction of one of the glowing orbs. As quickly as he’d relaxed into Sam’s side, he shoved away and bounced up. He stood on his tiptoes, futilely trying to get a better look at the jellies floating their way.

 

Sam released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, thankful for Vincent’s timely interruption. Penny was honest and innocent, and lying to her felt intrinsically wrong. He wasn’t sure he was capable of lying to her.

 

Sam watched, enthralled, as the jellies floated gracefully to the shoreline. Their bodies lit up the ocean waters; it glowed and shimmered as they swam across the still waters. A hush fell over the crowd of people lined up to watch their annual migration; Sam took the opportunity to look around at the townsfolk.

 

Abigail, Nate, and Sebastian were seated together at the other end of the pier; Abigail was buried in one of Nate’s hoodies, her head on his shoulder. Sebastian had his phone out, probably taking a picture for whoever he had on this line this time. There were the others, too: Evelyn, George, Alex, and Haley; Clint and Emily; Marnie, Jas, and Shane; Willy, Gus, and Gunther; then Sebastian’s family. Mayor Lewis had paused in making his rounds with the townsfolk long enough to watch as well. Sam allowed himself one more look in Elliott’s direction, and his breath caught in his throat.

 

Everyone else was looking at the jellies, but Elliott was looking at him.

 

Sam didn’t allow himself to wish for watching them with Elliott next year. He knew that wasn’t a possibility because there wouldn’t be a next year, just like there wouldn’t be a Spirit’s Eve or a Wintersday for them this year. He kept hold of Elliott’s gaze and rested a hand on the pier, outstretched in Elliott’s direction. Elliott gave Sam another one of those small, fond smiles and mirrored the action, fingers splayed on the blanket in Sam’s direction.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Vincent whispered in awe.

 

Sam didn’t look away from Elliott. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice catching, “it is.”

 

*

 

Sam returned to the beach once Vincent had returned safely home and the townsfolk had cleared away from the pier. His mom thought he was staying at Sebastian’s. He hadn’t needed to lie to her, not really—he was nearing twenty-three, and she trusted that he’d stay safe. Still, living in her house meant he felt the need to clue her in on his whereabouts and keep her in the loop. Lying to her about where he was staying probably defeated the purpose of that, but Sam told himself she didn’t want to know why he was staying at Elliott’s and just what they would be getting up to throughout the night.

 

He was nervous. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the actual act of sex because he was ready. _Yoba_ , he was ready for sex with Elliott that first night on the piano bench, and he would’ve gladly taken it that far had Elliott allowed it. Thinking back, it would’ve been easier to do it then than it was now, months into something nameless and formless that had taken up an entire summer and shaken Sam’s entire outlook on life and love to the core. Elliott hadn’t pursued it for whatever reason. Sam was sad that it was ending, but he was thankful for the summer Elliott had given him.

 

Sam did his best to brush the sand from the soles of his shoes on the mat outside Elliott’s front door before he let himself into the cabin. He dropped his overnight bag in the corner, toed off his shoes, and felt a giddy grin cracking across his face when he saw Elliott.

 

“Hey,” he said, happiness and nervousness and something not unlike sheer adoration warring for room in his chest. His pulse jumped in his throat; he brushed his hands across his thighs in an attempt to dry the clammy perspiration dampening his skin.

 

“Hi,” Elliott answered him. “The jellies were gorgeous tonight, weren’t they?”

 

Sam chewed at his upper lip. He didn’t think Elliott was actually talking about the jellies—he’d barely looked at them all night—so Sam responded in kind. “Yeah,” he said softly, “you were.”

 

Elliott laughed and stood from where he was seated and crossed the cabin in a few short strides, wrapping his arms around Sam and burying his nose in his hair. He inhaled deeply, hot breath fluttering the hair at the top of Sam’s head. Their bodies notched together perfectly, all of Elliott’s hard grooves and planes falling neatly into place against Sam’s. After a long moment, Elliott pulled back to study Sam’s face, hands coasting up and down his arms. “Sam, look at me, would you?” He touched the tip of his index finger to just below Sam’s chin and smiled softly, eyes glittering in the dimly lit cabin. “You’re trembling. Do you want to sit?”

 

Sam’s head spun. Sitting meant they would be sitting on the bed—that’s where they always sat; it was _normal_ —but that was one step closer to what the entire night was supposed to be about. One step closer to end of what had panned out to be a glorious summer-long hookup that had, for better or for worse, changed Sam’s life.

 

Of course he was trembling.

 

Sam didn’t want this to end. He didn’t want _after_ to be a goodbye and the cabin door shutting solidly behind him, to pass Elliott at random on the street or make eye contact with him over the counter at Poppy’s shop and live with the reminder of what had happened between them over the course of a single summer. When this had started—and they’d come to the conclusion that the first morning, the morning with Janae and Oscar Gone Wilde and _goodnight_ was the beginning—Sam had hoped for little more than shared smiles on a street. He wanted more now despite his best efforts to remain as detached as possible. He wanted the familiarity, the longing glances, a hand tucked securely into his as they walked to Poppy’s on a Sunday night for dinner. He wanted more than he’d ever previously allowed himself to want.

 

He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was horribly afraid of losing Elliott.

 

“M’sorry,” Sam mumbled, feet stumbling back as Elliott nudged him gently to the bed. Sam’s knees hit the side of the mattress; Elliott climbed into the bed in his usual spot in the center of the mattress and tugged Sam into his lap.

 

Elliott hummed and began to trace lazy patterns along Sam’s back with his free hand. Into Sam’s hair, he murmured, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing anything, Sam. I really am happy with where we are right now. If you’re having second thoughts—”

 

“No!” Sam jerked upright, away from Elliott. He hated the doubtful look on Elliott’s face, the worried crease between his brows. Sam reached up and smoothed that line away with his fingers before dropping his hand to toy with the beard bristling across Elliott’s chin. “I meant what I said the other night about wanting this, too. I just—” Sam sucked in a breath, concerned he was showing too much of his hand “—I’ve never done this with someone that mattered to me,” he admitted, embarrassed smile working at the corners of his mouth.

 

“I know.” Elliott turned his face into Sam’s palm and pressed a kiss there. “While I hate that you haven’t, I’m also selfishly grateful to be the first to properly worship your body the way it deserves. Is that terrible of me?”

 

Sam’s ears burned. He licked his lips and twined a soft piece of Elliott’s hair around his fingers, eyes downcast so as not to meet Elliott’s gaze. Elliott was impossibly patient, unendingly kind, and Sam wasn’t sure what he’d done in this life or a previous one to deserve any of what Elliott so freely gave him. He almost thought it would’ve been easier if Elliott were more of an asshole about the entire situation. As it stood, Elliott’s actions and mannerisms only served to deepen the emotions Sam so studiously avoided coming to terms with.

 

“No,” Sam whispered, massaging his fingers into Elliott’s scalp before working his way down, “I’m happy it’s you.”

 

Elliott dipped his hand down further, fingers ducking beneath the hem of Sam’s shirt and rucking it up slightly. He resumed the slow circles he’d been rubbing into Sam’s back, dexterous fingers working at the tension knotted around Sam’s spine. Elliott’s hands were soft and strong, steady in their confidence against Sam’s skin. These were the hands that had brought Sam both to and over the edge on countless occasions, hands that had cupped his face and stroked down his sides, hands that had both circled around and been inside of him.

 

Feeling more confident than he actually was, Sam leaned forward and pressed his lips to Elliott’s.

 

The kiss was warm and dry, more a brush of skin-on-skin than an actual kiss. Elliott’s breath caught in his throat; his hand stilled and held Sam in place. He tipped his face up, allowing Sam better access, so Sam kissed him again.

 

Then again, mouth set firmly against Elliott’s, slow and sensual, tongue tracing along the generous curve of Elliott’s bottom lip. It swept up, tasting at the cupid’s bow, soft-sweet traces of deep plummy wine and something sharper—whiskey, maybe scotch. Sam’s teeth caught at that plush bottom lip, tugging and worrying at it in question.

 

Elliott wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist and rested his free hand on Sam’s shoulder, pulling him so they were chest-to-chest. He sighed into Sam’s mouth, parted his lips. Sam could feel the staccato rhythm of Elliott’s heart pounding painfully against the cage of his chest. Elliott was nervous despite his experience and familiarity with Sam’s body. That knowledge, along with the sense of solidarity in their shared apprehension, bolstered Sam’s confidence. This was important to more than just Sam, then.

 

It mattered to Elliott, too.

 

Sam broke away from the kiss and rested his forehead against Elliott’s, breath coming in rapid-short bursts. “Good morning, Elliott Walton,” he murmured.

 

Elliott beamed. His lips were wet and bitten, pinked-up from Sam’s kisses. “Good morning, Sam Underhill.” He plucked at the hem on Sam’s shirt questioningly, a single brow raised. “May I?”

 

Sam raised his arms in compliance. Elliott pulled the shirt off in one swift motion, dropping it to the floor and settling his hands on Sam’s sides. Sam began working at the buttons on Elliott’s shirt. The first was already undone and exposed the hollow at the center of Elliott’s collarbones; Sam dipped his head forward and nipped gently at the flushing skin with his teeth. Elliott hummed, pleased, and dropped his head back to expose more of the skin on his neck. Sam tracked his tongue up the length of Elliott’s throat, left sloppy kisses gleaming where his pulse pounded visibly just below his jaw.

 

Sam worked another button on Elliott’s shirt open and nuzzled at the newly revealed skin. Elliott sucked in a wavering breath above him and tightened his grip on Sam’s sides. He canted his hips upwards, a silent conversation passing between their bodies. Elliott was hard, painfully so, cock bulging against the pressure of his pants. Sam shifted and ground down against him, just once, and Elliott let out a muffled moan.

 

“Sam,” he managed, voice rough.

 

The third and fourth buttons, now. Elliott’s entire upper chest was exposed. Sam had seen it on countless occasions—in and out of bed—but the sight felt new and unfamiliar, as if the planes of his chest were vast fields of uncharted territory. Sam pushed the shirt away from Elliott’s shoulders and pressed his hands to Elliott’s pectorals, ran his fingers through the soft peppering of hair at the center of his chest and around his nipples. Elliott’s weren’t as sensitive as Sam’s, but he enjoyed the touching all the same. Sam sucked on his thumb and index finger before twisting gently at one nipple, enjoying the sounds emanating from deep in Elliott’s chest. He twisted a little harder, and—

 

Sam had a moment to process that he was being flipped before his back landed on the soft down of the duvet. Elliott was on his knees, hips positioned squarely between Sam’s thighs. His fingers tugged the buttons on his shirt free quickly, efficiently. He shucked the shirt, dropping it to the floor alongside Sam’s.

 

Sam reached forward at the same time Elliott dropped down, growling about _too many clothes_ as he tore hungrily at the buttons on Sam’s jeans. They popped open easily, the noise of his zipper obscene over the panting breaths sounding in the silence of the cabin.

 

Hooking his fingers in Sam’s belt loops, Elliott yanked Sam’s jeans down his thighs and reached back to pull the denim free from his legs. Elliott discarded Sam’s jeans on the floor and paused to inspect Sam’s still-socked feet, hungry smile edging into laughter.

 

“You always leave your socks on,” he laughed, fingers hooking into the elastic of the socks and pulling them off. He pressed a soft kiss to the arch of Sam’s left foot, the sharp ball of his ankle, bit gently at his Achilles heel. His mouth trailed slow, tickling kisses up the back of Sam’s calf; Elliott lapped at the backside of Sam’s knee before bringing Sam’s leg up to rest on his shoulder.

 

Elliott scraped the rough stubble of his beard along the sensitive inner portion of Sam’s upper thigh before biting down and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Sam cried out, fingers scrabbling for purchase in Elliott’s hair as he canted his hips forward. His cock pulsed and throbbed, the tip leaking precome against the stretchy fabric of his boxer briefs. Elliott caught Sam’s gaze and held it as he ducked his head down and brushed the flat of his tongue over the constricting fabric covering Sam’s cock.

 

It was nearly too much.

 

Sam pushed himself back into a sitting position and reached for the button on Elliott’s pants. His hands were swatted away; Sam reached for the buttons once more and growled softly in protest when Elliott gripped both of his hands in one of his own and held them firmly behind Sam’s back. There were still too many clothes between the two of them—Elliott was in his pants and barefoot; Sam still in his boxer briefs. He wanted the barriers gone, everything wide open and bare between the two of them. Sam wanted everything Elliott had to give.

 

“I want you naked,” Sam protested.

 

Elliott caught Sam’s mouth in a kiss, all tongue and lips and teeth. He bit too hard at Sam’s bottom lip, left it aching and sore in a way that shot straight into Sam’s abdomen and made his dick jump. “If you take the rest of my clothes off now,” he warned softly, eyes holding Sam’s, “I’m not going to be able to hold back.

 

“As it stands,” and he gripped the elastic of Sam’s underwear with his fingers and slid it down slowly, inch by tantalizing inch, “there are things I want to do to you that require patience on both of our parts. Can you do that for me, Sam?”

 

Sam’s dick sprung free of the material and slapped against his belly. It was rose red and flushed with desire, dark veins prominent along the shaft. A shiny pearl of precome beaded at the slit; Sam watched, fascinated, as it dripped onto his hip.

 

“Yeah, I—” he whimpered when Elliott wrapped his lips around the head of his cock and _sucked_ “—I can— _Yoba_ , Elliott, I want you to fuck me.”

 

A sharp, unexpected smack landed on Sam’s hip; the head of Sam’s cock popped free from Elliott’s mouth as he looked up to shoot Sam a heated glare. “ _Patience._ Did you not hear what I just said?” He dropped a hand to the erection pressing against his zipper and touched himself, running the flat of his palm back and forth over the hard bulge of his cock. His eyes shuttered closed; Sam found himself reaching forward once more.

 

Elliott gripped Sam’s hips, hot fingers bruising the sensitive flesh. The touch was bordering on too much, too hard, _not enough;_ Elliott flipped Sam onto his stomach with ease and pressed him down into the bed. He lined his hips up with Sam’s and rutted once, the rough fabric burning pleasantly against Sam’s touch-starved skin. Mouth dropping to Sam’s ear, Elliott hissed, “You’ve waited an entire summer for this, Sam. I assure you, you can wait a few more minutes. Hands up above your head, please.”

 

Sam did as he was told and rested both of his hands above his head. Stark naked and lying in front of a still-clothed Elliott, Sam felt the heat rolling off him in waves. Elliott reached forward and grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed. “Hips up,” he commanded, voice steady. Sam lifted his hips; Elliott fitted the pillow beneath Sam’s waist so his ass was higher than the rest of his body. Sam’s cock pressed into the pillow; the moment he even considered thrusting into it, Elliott’s fingers caught at Sam’s hip. “Sam,” he warned, “I won’t tell you again. Draw your knees up for me.”

 

“Babe, _please_ .” Sam’s voice came out higher, more of a whine than he intended. They’d never done this—whatever _this_ was—before, and he was growing impatient. Were they going straight into fucking, then? No preparation, barely any lips on his cock, and Elliott wasn’t even taking his pants off?

 

“Hm?” Elliott ghosted his mouth along the back of Sam’s neck, wet lips grazing at his nape.

 

Sam shuddered at the sensation, spine arching. He wanted desperately for Elliott to put his hands on him. Ashamed of his inexperience and unsure of what he was even asking for, he ground out, “I want you to touch me.”

 

Elliott’s mouth traced down to Sam’s shoulder, tongue flicking out in careful little laps across his skin. The wetness left his skin feeling both hot and cold, flayed open and too tight; Sam arched into the touch and wriggled his hips impatiently. “I _am_ touching you,” Elliott murmured, mouth tracking wet kisses over the landscape of Sam’s back.

 

Sam’s skin pricked at the sensation of Elliott’s beard scraping at the sensitive flesh. His cock pressed into the pillow, aching and neglected; he gripped the comforter with both hands and twisted his hips slightly. The relief was minimal. “More,” he begged, voice wrung out and desperate. “Elliott—babe,” he added, scattered brain recalling that Elliott reacted well to that pet name, “I need you.”

 

Elliott’s mouth dipped lower, down to the small of his back. His hands kneaded the cheeks of Sam’s ass, pulling them apart and pushing them back together, working the tender flesh with both fingers and palms. Sam lifted his hips, pressed himself up into Elliott’s grip and moaned softly.

 

Sam stilled when Elliott brought his face down and nuzzles into Sam’s crack, nosing against the tight ring of muscle around his hole. A single, quick kiss, a flick of tongue, and—

 

_Oh._

 

Sam’s stomach swooped down down down, back arching hips canting as Elliott’s tongue did that same single flick over his entrance.

 

“Fuck,” Sam groaned.

 

Elliott paused,  glanced up. His breath ghosted over Sam’s ass, mouth wet and plush and pink and _just there_. “Okay?” he asked, voice low and cobbled with desire.

 

Sam shifted, took a hand down and worked it between his body and the bed. He squeezed at his cock once, dry hand too entirely too rough on his prick. Elliott didn’t stop him this time. “S’perfect,” Sam grunted. “Please, keep—”

 

The wind knocked from Sam’s lungs when Elliott’s beard scraped across his perineum, bristles pricking the sensitive skin. Elliott began to work at Sam’s entrance—short, kitten-like strokes at the flushed pink ring of muscle. He laved the flat of his tongue over Sam’s hole, reached a hand up to settle at the small of Sam’s back to hold him in place.

 

Sam didn’t even try to hold back the broken sound that escaped from his mouth.

 

Pleasure pooled, hot and golden, at the base of Sam’s spine, curled its way up and over. Sam’s nipples tightened in response to the clever flicks of Elliott’s tongue; his cock jerked in his hand and leaked more precome from the tip. Sam worked the fluid down around his shaft and jerked up, hard, chasing the high of his impending orgasm.

 

Elliott licked from the top of Sam’s crack to his balls, pausing long enough to suck lightly at the skin of Sam’s sack before striping back up. He licked like that, getting Sam’s ass good and wet. The saliva dripped onto Sam’s balls, coated the underside of his cock to mix with the precome growing tacky on Sam’s shaft. Sam closed his eyes and pressed his face into the bed, mind buzzing. He wanted Elliott inside, now, his tongue or his fingers or his cock, Sam didn’t care, but he needed _something._

 

Elliott changed the shape of his tongue, narrowing it so the tip pointed and prodded insistently at Sam’s hole. He pressed in, penetrating the ring of muscle over and over. It couldn’t go as deep as Elliott’s fingers, couldn’t reach that little bud of nerves Elliott loved stroking over, but the thought of Elliott’s _tongue_ inside Sam’s body was nearly enough on its own.

 

Sam ground his hips back, swiveled slightly, vision fracturing when Elliott planted his lips around Sam’s hole and sucked as his tongue continued working Sam’s entrance open. Elliott pulled back and blew soft puffs of cold air on Sam’s soaked entrance. Sam trembled and arched, muttered a string of expletives. Sam could feel Elliott’s smile against his skin.

 

A hand disappeared from Sam’s hips, a soft sucking noise, then a single finger traced around the ring of muscle. Sam’s hips bucked once more, pressing back and seeking; Elliott pressed in past the resistance and sunk his finger in down to the second knuckle. He worked it in and out slowly before curling that finger up and stroking directly over Sam’s prostate. The sensation was white-hot and spiraling; it sent Sam’s head spinning and left stars blossoming behind his eyelids. He tightened his grip on his cock and raised his hips, begged Elliott to fuck him in a broken voice.

 

Elliott brushed across Sam’s prostate once, twice, three times and Sam was coming, voice trembling as he moaned— _fuck so good Elliott please please fuck oh Yoba_. Elliott’s finger continued to push inside of him, fucking him through his orgasm.

 

Once it was clear Sam was finished, Elliott slipped his finger out and pressed a quick kiss to Sam’s hair. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “Want me to grab you anything from the kitchen?”

 

Sam cracked an eye open and looked at Elliott but didn’t respond.

 

The bed shifted as Elliott got up and padded into the kitchen. Sam watched as he poured two glasses of wine and soaked a washcloth with warm water at the sink. His hair hung wavy and thick down to the small of his back, rare glimpses of pale skin peeking from beneath the auburn curtain as he moved about the kitchen.

 

Elliott set the glasses on the nightstand and nudged Sam over, onto his back. He pulled the pillow free from the pillowcase and wiped at the come smeared across Sam’s stomach and thighs with the washcloth. His jaw was set tight, the line between his brows prominent once more. His cheeks were red and flushed, mouth swollen. He pressed his lips into a firm line, looking for all intents and purposes as if he were struggling to _not_ say something. He flicked his eyes up to meet Sam’s. “You’re okay?”

 

“Better than okay.” Sam scrubbed his hands through his hair and sat up. He wanted Elliott closer, wanted to feel the skin-on-skin contact he craved after coming. He cupped Elliott’s face in his hands and pressed a kiss to his temple. Elliott smelled like coconut and Sam’s cologne, familiar and comforting. “You didn’t get off, though.”

 

Elliott chuckled and dropped to the bed, lean body stretching next to Sam’s. He unbuttoned his pants and lifted his hips just enough to push the material down past his thighs; Sam helped by pulling his boxer briefs off with them. “I was banking on your refractory period being as short as it normally is. _I_ can be patient,” he said pointedly. Elliott’s cock jutted proudly from between his legs, wine red and half-hard.

 

“I’m patient.” Sam reached for Elliott’s member, fingers barely grazing the hot skin before Elliott swatted him away.

 

“Are you, now?” Elliott laughed and pulled Sam flush against his body. This close, Sam could see the lines around Elliott’s eyes crinkling with his laughter, the varying shades of red and brown in his beard, the small scar just above his left eyebrow.

 

Sam strained forward and caught Elliott’s mouth in a kiss. “Of course I am.” Lowering his voice slightly and changing the pronunciation of his vowels, Sam mimicked Elliott. “ _You’ve waited an entire summer for this, Sam_.”

 

Elliott propped himself up on his elbow, expression equal parts adoring and horrified. “Was that supposed to be an impression of me?”

 

Sam beamed and twined a piece of Elliott’s hair around his fingers. “It was good, right?”

 

Elliott pursed his lips. “If by ‘good’ you mean you sound like you sat on a stick and never quite managed to dislodge it, then yes. Your impression of me is astounding.”

 

Sam pressed his fingers into Elliott’s sides. The flesh was warm and taut; Sam could count every rib lying just beneath the surface. He slid his hands down further and pressed his thumbs into the sharp cuts of Elliott’s hip bones. “Well,” he drawled playfully, “at least I’ve got _something_ up my ass, right?”

 

Elliott gripped both of Sam’s upper arms and rolled him onto his back, knees bracketing his waist and hands holding him firmly in place. Gazing down at Sam, he teased, “You’re a menace. Has anyone ever told you that?”

 

Sam’s eyes flicked down to Elliott’s erection and his own slowly hardening cock. He licked his lips and peered up at Elliott through his lashes. “Yeah, but I’m your menace.”

 

Elliott dropped a kiss to Sam’s forehead, eyes alight with happiness. “That you are.”

 

“Elliott...” Sam traced his index finger over the sharp cut of Elliott’s cheekbone and gave him a watered-down smile, suddenly emotional. He took a deep breath in an attempt to quell the onslaught of emotions warring within him. “I just—I wanted to thank you, I guess. For this summer. For everything. You’ve been… you _are_ amazing,” Sam corrected himself. “I just wanted you to know that.”

 

Elliott’s lips glanced over Sam’s palm and each of his fingertips. His gaze was fond and soft; he tipped himself forward and bridged the gap between their mouths. It was the type of touch that was worthy of a first time: slow and steady, evenly paced, overflowing with unspoken emotion and the weight of a thousand promises. Elliott took his time with the kiss, same as he’d taken his time with Sam: it was both delicate and precise, hungry and filling; Sam thought, belatedly, that it was the type of kiss he’d remember long after the ghost of it faded on his lips.

 

He sighed into Elliott’s mouth and pulled him closer.

 

There would be no stopping this time.

 

Over the course of the summer, they’d come dangerously close on more than one occasion to having sex. One of them—normally Elliott because Sam didn’t have that type of self-control—would stop before the final act, eyes half-crazed with lust and desire. The few times Sam had stopped, it hadn’t been because he didn’t want to have sex with Elliott. It was because he was afraid of losing whatever it was they had once the sex was said and done. That’s how things worked with all his other hookups; why would this one be any different?

 

This—right here, right now—was their boiling point. It was the culmination of every touch, every smile, every conversation they’d ever had. Once tonight was finished, Sam would walk away and potentially never interact with Elliott again. He’d weighed his options, and the outcome would be the same either way: Elliott would inevitably leave, either due to Sam having sex with him or _not_ having sex with him. Sam had decided early on that if given the opportunity to choose the way he was to lose Elliott Walton, it would be this way. He would rather have Elliott once than not at all, so his course of action was clear.

 

Tomorrow morning, he would wake up, look over at Elliott, and feel reassured that he had made the right decision. He would walk out of the cabin and into the fall and remember the summer in flashes of auburns and reds, roses and sunflowers and wine-flavored kisses.

 

He would remember the summer as the one in which he learned that love could exist if you let it grow where it flourished naturally.

 

Sam kissed Elliott again and again, a hand cupping at his cheek and the other gripping his ass. Sam stroked a thumb over Elliott’s cheekbone, tightened and squeezed his fingers against the tender skin on his backside. He wanted Elliott closer; he wanted him _inside_. He wished desperately for Elliott to completely envelope him in body and soul so that there was no beginning or end to either of them. He wanted them to be together, wanted Elliott’s touch etched tattoo-permanent across the sunkissed canvas of his skin.

 

He wanted Elliott in every way he could have him.

 

Sam parted his lips and flicked his tongue out to taste at the cushion of Elliott’s bottom lip. Just a taste, a quick smear of wet, but Elliott was groaning and opening his mouth, tongue snaking out in response to Sam’s brazenness. Elliott liked that, that Sam could be brazen and filthy and _loud_ at the most inopportune moments. He liked the courage Sam showed but never really felt; he got off on Sam’s constant hunger for Elliott’s touch and his taste.

 

Sam suckled greedily at Elliott’s tongue; the older man’s upper body trembled and he whimpered low in his chest. He slanted his hips over Sam’s and rolled, cock grinding into Sam’s; Sam hooked his ankles behind the backs of Elliott’s knees and canted his hips upwards in a silent plea for more. They could come like this, together—they had before, more than once—but that wasn’t what tonight was about.

 

Sam wanted Elliott to come inside him tonight.

 

The thought startled Sam so much that he broke away from the kiss and blurted, “David Bowie and Mick Jagger were once found naked in bed together.”

 

Elliott blinked in surprise, lust and confusion clouding his features. It took him a moment, and then: “Well, if I had to be a rockstar, Mick Jagger’s as good as any, right?”

 

“ _Labyrinth_ -era Bowie,” Sam said. “You called me that once. I fucking— _ah_ —loved it.”

 

“Ah, there was also that other day on the beach,” Elliott crooned. He pressed a lubricant-coated finger into Sam’s entrance; Sam’s back arched off the bed and he cried out. Sweat beaded at his forehead, glistened at the hollow of his collarbones; he reached blindly for Elliott’s cock and squeezed. He loved everything about Elliott’s voice: the low timbre, cobbled rough with desire; the velvety-smooth texture of it on his skin; the lilting tone it took on when he was trying to get Sam going. Sam was pretty sure he could get off on the sound of Elliott’s voice alone.

 

Elliott responded in kind with a particularly deep thrust, slender finger prodding, stretching him out. He added another finger and twisted his wrist, curling up to brush just barely across Sam’s prostate. “Do you remember that day, Sam? You were soaked from the sea and wearing those obscene little red shorts. When you walked away, do you know what I went inside and did?”

 

Sam moaned again and worked at Elliott’s cock. He smeared the precome leaking from the tip down across the head, pressed the calloused pad of his thumb against the underside of Elliott’s cock and rubbed the way he liked.

 

Elliott added a third finger and scissored them out, stretching Sam further. He leaned forward and whispered, “I went inside my cabin, Sam, and all I thought about was pulling you in there and stripping those shorts off you. Would you have liked that? Me pulling you in here that day, watching you fall apart in my bed the way you are now? I wanted to touch myself to the thought of you—I didn’t, not then—but I wanted to so, so badly.”

 

“Elliott,” Sam gasped, writhing, “if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to come again and neither of us are getting laid.”

 

Elliott chuckled and reached over with his free hand to pull the drawer of the nightstand open. There was the distinct crinkle of a foil packet being torn from a roll; Elliott’s fingers retracted from Sam’s hole.

 

Sam propped himself up to watch as Elliott tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth. Elliott held the condom out to Sam expectantly, nervous smile edging at the corners of his mouth. “Put it on me?”

 

Sam took the condom from him and rolled it over Elliott’s swollen prick with trembling fingers. Elliott uncapped the lubricant and poured a generous amount into his hand. He worked it up and down his shaft slowly, expertly keeping the rubber in place as he slicked himself up. Sam took a deep breath and laid back.

 

Elliott settled between Sam’s thighs comfortably; he positioned the head of his cock at Sam’s entrance but didn’t push in, opting instead to apply a dizzying pressure against Sam’s hole.  Elliott rested his forehead against Sam’s and sucked in a trembling breath. “You’re sure?”

 

Sam kissed the corner of Elliott’s mouth. His head was spinning, his body shaking with anticipation and desire. This was it—no turning back. Sam’s mind flashed briefly to the thought of walking out of the cabin in the morning and losing all of what they’d built; he shut that train of thought down and hooked his ankles around Elliott’s waist.

 

“Please,” Sam whispered. “I want you to fuck me.”

 

Elliott pressed forward slowly, the head of his cock breaching Sam’s entrance. It was an altogether different sensation than Elliott’s fingers—thicker and fuller, the discomfort at being stretched so wide paired with a delicious urgency at having Elliott _inside_ of him. Elliott pushed in inch by inch, eyes studying Sam’s face for any sign of discomfort. Sam felt himself stretching to accommodate Elliott’s girth, body protesting the intrusion. Elliott was too big, the pleasant fullness electrocuting every nerve in Sam’s body. It was equal parts amazing and excruciating; Sam could feel his cock softening between them with the pain of being stretched so far past his limits. He squirmed, lifted his hips from the bed and reached his fingers back to tangle in Elliott’s hair.

 

Sam held his legs in place, effectively trapping Elliott when he moved to pull out. “It’s okay,” Sam murmured. “I’m okay. I just—” he dipped his hips back down and swallowed past groan bubbling up in his throat “—I need you to move, babe.”

 

Elliott nodded once, jaw tight. “Sam, I—” he paused, expression torn. “I’m not going to last long,” he admitted apologetically. He drew his hips back and thrusted forward, cock slick against Sam’s passage. Elliott’s eyes shuttered closed and his breathing caught; he repeated the action once more, just a bit faster.

 

Sam wasn’t focused on coming—not this time, not with the tightening-relaxing-tightening of his body. He wanted Elliott to come more than anything. The dull note of pain previously playing at the back of his mind was replaced with a sharp point of pleasure, unfurling and spreading out to the tips of his fingers and down into the soles of his feet. Elliott was inside of him, cock rutting into him—his body, over and over—and that thought alone was erotic enough to send Sam careening. He counted the honeyed moans dripping from Elliott’s throat, the sweet exhalations of breath, the slap of skin-on-skin as Elliott picked up speed.

 

Their bodies fell into a rhythm: drawing backwards, pushing forward. Sam raised his hips in time with Elliott’s forward thrusts, taking comfort in the steady rocking of Elliott’s body against his own. His cock was caught between their stomachs; Sam gripped it in the hand that wasn’t pulling on Elliott’s hair and began to work at himself.

 

Sam tipped his chin up and caught Elliott’s mouth in a kiss. It was more a glancing of lips than an actual kiss, teeth clacking together and a set of embarrassed smiles shared. Elliott huffed out a laugh and dropped his head down to kiss Sam full-on, breath coming out in pants across Sam’s cheek. The skin on Sam’s chin protested the sensation of Elliott’s beard but he kissed him anyways, toes curling in pleasure at the mingled sensations of Elliott’s tongue and dick in Sam’s body at the same time.

 

Elliott snapped his hips forward, tip of his cock brushing against Sam’s prostate. Pleasure, white-hot and stinging, unfurled in Sam’s abdomen—like a fishhook jerking behind his bellybutton, there was a delicious pressure against his bladder and weighing in his balls. Sam’s cock throbbed and ached; he shifted his position and pressed his heels into the mattress.

 

He felt impossibly close to Elliott in that moment. No space, no breath, no words—nothing between them. They were as close as two people could get.

 

Until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Things have been hectic in real life, and wrangling this chapter was a bit like trying to lasso an eel. I'm forever thankful to my wonderful fic wife mercymain for cheering me on, picking apart my chapter, and helping me knit it back together into something I'm proud to be putting online for you guys.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented, subscribed, bookmarked, and left kudos! You're all Labyrinth-era Bowies in our eyes, and we love you.
> 
> xoxo ohsocyanide


	12. Chapter 12

Morning arrived, gentle and still, and brought with it two new truths. The first was that summer was now over, having ebbed into fall like the turning of a record. And the second was that, for the first time in over two years, when Elliott Walton woke up to greet the day, he wasn’t alone. He watched Sam with sleep-blurred eyes, hypnotized by the way the sunlight streaked across his face and caught the gold in his hair, and realized that he had almost forgotten how it felt to wake up in a bed with someone you loved.

 

Elliott had been awake for a while, drifting in and out of sleep as the morning crawled along. Normally he would have been up by now, but he had been entirely unable to get out of bed, wrapped up in Sam’s arms as he was. Elliott didn’t want to wake him up by moving around, and a small, selfish part of him wanted to stretch the morning as long as it would last. Sam would be going home in the afternoon to help his younger brother with school, and Elliott wanted to stave off that goodbye as long as he could. He was always sad to see Sam go, but he was sure that today would be harder than usual. Something had changed between the two of them last night, and Elliott was nowhere near ready to return to reality. 

 

Eventually, though, the growling of Elliott’s stomach beat out his desire to stay in bed, and he untangled himself from Sam’s arms and legs as carefully as he could. Sam shifted under the covers and groaned softly, but his eyes stayed shut and his breathing steadied within a few moments. Elliott vaguely remembered Sam saying once that he was a heavy sleeper. Still, best not to push his luck.

 

Elliott rummaged through his dresser as quietly as he could manage and pulled out something that he could throw on. Sam had packed a bag of overnight clothes, but he and Elliott had both fallen asleep naked. Crossing towards the bathroom, Elliott briefly considered just getting back in bed and watching Sam sleep while he could afford the luxury. There were far worse ways to spend a morning, after all. But Sam would no doubt be hungry when he woke up, and Elliott might as well make himself useful. He shut the bathroom door quietly behind him.

 

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Elliott felt the comical need to do a double take. He was a walking disaster. He had assumed that his body was ready for last night—clearly, it hadn't been. Lifting his arms and legs experimentally, Elliott felt a near-embarrassing level of soreness. It had been a while since he’d had sex—even longer since he’d been with someone as vigorous as Sam—and he was paying for his overexertion now. Next time he might need to consider stretching first, he thought begrudgingly. He  _ looked _ a mess as well. Sam had seemed determined to mark Elliott however he could last night. As such, there were hickeys, purple and bruised, on display all across his body. There were at least two on his neck, one on his chest, another on his arm, and a rather large one on the inner side of his thigh. Elliott was suddenly very grateful that fall meant he could wear a scarf outside without seeming suspicious. 

 

Of course, his hair had probably gotten the worst of it. Sam had remembered that Elliott enjoyed having his hair pulled, and he had made good use of that knowledge last night. His hair was unsurprisingly chaotic, tangled and tousled worse than he’d seen it in a long time. He tried to run a comb through it for a minute or so before giving up and tying it back into a low ponytail.

 

Splashing some water on his face and rubbing at his eyes, Elliott wondered if Sam would be that eager every time they slept together. He had made love to Elliott like nothing else mattered in the world. For someone who claimed that his previous hookups hadn’t been long or enjoyable, Sam had been hellbent on making every second with Elliott last. He had seemed emotional for much of the night although he wouldn’t really expand on why. There seemed to be things he was on the edge of saying more than once, but he held back every time. The most Elliott had gotten out of Sam was a thank you for the summer and the confession that this was the first time he was sleeping with someone who “mattered” to him. Elliott couldn’t help but wonder just how that fit into their noncommittal fling—he had a hard time imagining that admissions like that were common in the booze-filled, impersonal hookups that someone like Sebastian specialized in. It had all been welcome, although it only made it harder for Elliott to keep his own feelings under wraps. 

 

At least five times last night he had almost told Sam that he loved him. He managed to dodge it, of course; he said other sweet things that Sam might like to hear to keep himself from going completely rogue. But it had been difficult. He had never felt as connected to Sam as he did last night, and it killed him to keep it a secret just how much it had meant to him. Simply put, everything about last night had been amazing. Passionate, fevered, tender—everything Elliott could have hoped for. He wanted very much to do it again, and he wasn’t going to scare Sam off now by telling him things he didn’t want to hear.  

 

When Elliott stepped out of the bathroom, Sam was still burrowed beneath the covers. What Elliott needed most right now was a hot shower, something to beat out the aches in his joints, but that would definitely wake Sam up. Instead, Elliott opted to get breakfast started. Sam would probably be hungry as soon as he woke up: he’d certainly done more than enough last night to work up an appetite. 

  
  


He tiptoed to the side of the bed, careful to avoid stepping on any particularly creaky floorboards, and plucked his phone from the bedside table. Unable to help himself, Elliott leaned over Sam’s sleeping figure and pressed a quick kiss to his temple. Sam didn’t move, and Elliott adjusted the comforter around his shoulders before retreating to the kitchen. 

 

Elliott grabbed a carton of blueberries from the fridge and set about washing them. Apparently blueberry muffins were a favorite of Sam’s from his childhood. If Elliott was lucky, he’d have them in the oven before Sam finally got up. Turning the blueberries underneath the water, Elliott wondered how much more he’d get to learn about Sam in the time ahead of them. He wasn’t trying to expect too much; after all, there was no real timeline in place for them. In his limited experience, he knew that secret affairs tended to end sooner rather than later. Still, it felt nice to do things like this, and he would like to keep doing them as long as he could. In that moment—with Sam peacefully sleeping and Elliott cooking him breakfast—he could almost pretend that they were a real couple.

 

He was pulled from that thought by a knock at the door. He swiveled around, first instinct to see if Sam had been woken up. He hadn’t been, but he mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over with his back to Elliott when another knock came. 

 

Elliott walked to the door and opened it briskly, positioning his body at an angle that kept the inside of the cabin from being visible from the outside. The last thing he needed was someone seeing Sam naked in Elliott’s bed. Willy was standing in the entryway, fisherman’s cap pulled down to his eyebrows.

 

“Morning, Elliott.” Willy smiled, but he was clearly thrown off by Elliott’s appearance. Elliott realized with a start that in his hurry to keep Sam from waking up, he had gone to the door without a shirt on. 

 

“Willy, it’s good to see you,” Elliott said warmly, trying to charm his way out of seeming suspicious. It didn’t work, not when Willy’s gaze so clearly locked on the love bites bruising his neck and chest. 

 

Willy coughed a few times and pointedly looked away. “I collected the last of the season for you. M’sorry to bother you, you can just come get it at the shop later if now’s a bad time.”

 

“No, not at all. You know I’m helpless with fish if you don’t walk me through it. Let me just… put a shirt on,” he said with a nervous laugh. “One moment.”

 

Willy motioned for him to go ahead, and Elliott shut the door with a sigh. Cursing underneath his breath, he went to his dresser and dug out a thin white sweater. It wouldn’t cover the hickeys on his neck, but there was no point in hiding them now that Willy had seen them. He quickly pulled it on and grabbed his shoes on the way out. 

 

Elliott nodded towards Willy’s shop as he closed the door behind him. “Lead the way.”

 

They set out down the beach, Willy cracking his knuckles in front of him. The sun was high in the sky, but the air still felt brisk. Elliott wasn’t sure he’d ever be used to how quickly the seasons changed in the valley, but he was grateful for the chill on the wind. He’d be able to go outside more often now without feeling like he was courting heatstroke. 

 

“So, what do you have for me this morning?” he asked amiably. 

 

“Got a good bit of tuna that came in yesterday morning. Red snapper, a few halibut. The tilapia ran a bit small this year, but they taste fine.”

 

“Did you pack any sturgeon?”

 

“Not for you, but you can grab ‘em from the store fridge if you want. I didn’t know you liked those.”

 

“When I was younger, my family would take trips to the beach sometimes. There was this little restaurant by the shore that made a vinegar-poached sturgeon with some sort of butter sauce. I loved it. Since I won’t be back there anytime soon, I may as well try making it myself.”

 

Willy smiled up at Elliott, happy as always to discuss the nostalgic nature of food. “Sounds fancy to me, but you’re welcome to bring some home with you. Just save me a plate when you make it.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll come out horribly, but still. It would be nice to try.”

 

This was a tradition between the two of them, dating back to Elliott’s first days in Pelican Town. Willy had always been generous with Elliott: taking him to the saloon for dinner and drinks when he knew that Elliott wouldn’t eat otherwise, or tossing him extra catches he’d hauled on his own. He had just been so excited to have a neighbor to talk to, and their friendship had been an easy one. But the start of a new season always got him particularly charitable. He made sure to put aside extra fish that he’d caught in the days leading up to it, and once the season officially turned he gave Elliott everything he’d saved. It was always enough to keep himself fed for days; it was like a guaranteed small feast every few months.

 

“There’s plenty for you to practice with,” Willy continued. “I packed you a bit extra this time around.”

 

“Oh? You give me so much as it is.”

 

“Yeah, well. Seems like you’ve got an extra mouth to feed these days,” he said. When Elliott shot him with a guarded look, he simply shrugged. “I don’t know if the Underhill boy likes fish all that much, but he won’t go hungry on my watch.”

 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Elliott said awkwardly. 

 

“I don’t mean nothing by it,” Willy assured him. “Just saying, is all. I’ve seen him hanging around this summer more than I ever have, and I know that probably means something for you. Or it might not.”

 

Elliott sighed. Sam had mentioned bumping into Willy on more than one occasion when he was slinking out of the cabin at night and Willy was coming home from the bar. Elliott had simply hoped that Willy hadn’t connected the dots. 

 

“Thank you, Willy. For the extras. And... I’d appreciate if you kept that information about Sam between us for now.”

 

“No problem. I’m glad for you, though. It’s not good for a man to live alone for too long,” Willy said gruffly. 

 

“You live alone,” Elliott pointed out. 

 

Willy grimaced slightly, though the frown didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t always, son. That’s why I know.”

 

“Of course not,” Elliott said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

 

“Yer not rude. You just didn’t know. Anyway, it’s been a while.”

 

“How long? Since you’ve been living alone, I mean.”

 

Willy grew quiet as he thought about it. “Going on twenty years, thereabouts.”

 

Elliott looked at Willy searchingly, trying to see if this was difficult for him to talk about. There was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that topics like this were generally avoided. Willy knew more about Elliott than Elliott knew about him. Willy was always happy to listen to a person talk for hours, but he was fairly private about himself. Still, Elliott wanted to say something if for no other reason than the fact that Willy was living out one of Elliott’s greatest fears: growing old on the edge of town without anyone to come home to. He had never really thought much about Willy living alone and felt like a terrible friend for it. 

 

“By choice, or…?”

 

Willy barked out a laugh. “Nah, not any choice I made, but that’s life. No use moping about it. I’m not the first man in the world to get a divorce.”

 

“I never knew you were married.” 

 

“Oh, sure. Got married right here in town. Davey, the mayor before Lewis took it up, did the ceremony. We moved into the attic above the Fish Shop, and my pappy lived in your cabin.”

 

“For how many years?” Elliott asked quietly.

 

Willy adjusted his cap as they arrived at the dock, glancing down at the water below to see if there was anything in his crab pots. “About five years, I’d say. Then Pappy died, and I closed down the shop for a while. Jude and I took some jobs as longshoremen in Beimai. I came back here after the divorce. Been here ever since.”

 

“I’m sorry, this must be difficult to talk about.”

 

“Not so much,” he said with a shrug. “After twenty years, you get used to it. Being alone, I mean.”

 

“Do you have anyone else in your life, though? Family or friends? I’m not sure I can ever remember you having a visitor.”

 

“I’ve got my fishing trips with the gang from Ligo for company. I get a call from my sister every week or so. And you’re not so bad yourself,” Willy said with a grin as he unlocked the door to the shop.

 

Elliott smiled back and followed him inside. 

 

*

 

Elliott arrived back at the cabin to find that Sam wasn’t in bed anymore. The covers had been kicked off towards the edge of the mattress, and his overnight bag was gone. Elliott thought for one brief, awful moment, that Sam had left. He knew that Sam didn’t owe him anything, seeing as they weren’t a  _ real  _ couple, but packing up and leaving without a goodbye was unlike him. This wasn’t Sam’s way of telling Elliott that last night had been a one night stand, was it? 

 

The sound of the shower running from behind the closed door of the bathroom flooded Elliott with relief. He kicked his shoes off and made his way to the kitchen to start unpacking the fish he’d gotten from Willy’s. They’d already been washed, cut, wrapped in plastic, and packed into a basket that was only slightly dripping with brine. He cleared a corner in the freezer to stack everything in. He thought absentmindedly that he should bring some over to Poppy’s later and see if Leah had any recipes she was waiting to try. The breakfast he’d had with the two of them and Sam had been a distinctly pleasant time, and he wanted to try his best to encourage more group meals like that. Maybe in a few days.

 

When he was finished, Elliott leaned against the kitchen counter and watched the bathroom door. He was excited that Sam was awake, although he was sorry that he’d missed him waking up. It was a small thing, but Elliott wanted everything about the morning to be perfect. This was their first “morning after” together, after all. One of many, he hoped. 

 

Elliott set the now-empty basket outside his front door so that it could dry in the sun without making the whole cabin smell like fish and washed his hands in the sink before returning to breakfast. He had the batter for the muffins mixed and in the oven before the water in the bathroom ever stopped. Apparently, Sam had a penchant for long showers. He made some coffee while he waited, preparing a mug for Sam with his preferred amount of cream and sugar stirred in.

 

By the time Sam emerged from the bathroom with his overnight bag thrown over his shoulder, Elliott was sitting at the dining table scribbling away at some pages from his novel. Looking up, Elliott took in the sight of him. Sam’s hair was still damp from the shower, small beads of water dripping down the ends of his hair. He was wearing boxers and a shirt with his band’s name printed across the chest in stylized letters. He hadn’t made it through the night unmarked either: Elliott could spy at least one hickey on Sam’s throat, although it was much smaller than his own. Everything considered, he looked exceedingly lovely.

 

Sam ran a hand over his hair and looked around for a clock. “Hey. Should I be saying good morning, or good afternoon?”

 

Elliott hummed in thought. “Up to you, I suppose. It’s still technically morning, although only for a few more minutes. We slept rather late.”

 

Sam nodded, making a show of weighing both options over in his head. “Good afternoon,” he decided.

 

Elliott gave him a small smile and took a sip of his coffee. “Good afternoon to you as well. Did you have a nice shower?”

 

Sam made a face. “ _ Nice _ is one way to describe it,” he offered hesitantly. “Have you ever checked out the water heater in this place?”

 

Elliott paused, mug halfway to his lips. “What do you mean?”

 

Sam shifted his overnight bag from one shoulder to the other. “Uh, well, water doesn’t magically heat on its own, you know. You have a water heater here somewhere; the temperature is probably going haywire because the heater itself is ancient. You never knew that?”

 

Elliott cast his gaze downward, cheeks pinking with embarrassment. He had written his cabin up as a fixer-upper when he bought it, but he had never quite gotten around to the fixing part. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t. It’s not something I think much about. Home repairs were never something I learned much about growing up.”

 

Sam sported the same guarded expression he always reserved for when he wanted to ask Elliott something but wasn’t sure if he should. “Oh? What did you learn about, then?”

 

“English. Performing arts. Theater, mostly, but I played piano on occasion,” he answered, the details spilling out before he could stop them. “Cello, too, though I gave that up years ago. In terms of more _ practical _ knowledge, I’m afraid grew up rather lacking. You can clearly see, given my ignorance on water heaters.”

 

“And driving.”

 

Elliott smiled despite himself. “Yes, and driving. But anyway,” he cleared his throat and stood up, getting ready to bring Sam his coffee. “Enough about me. Are you—”

 

“Leaving,” Sam interjected. 

 

“Oh,” Elliott said as he stopped in his tracks, brows quirking together in confusion. “You’re leaving.”

 

Sam worried at his bottom lip and looked down at the floor. His voice was quiet and borderline defensive, as if he wasn’t the one choosing to leave. “Yeah.”

 

Elliott watched dumbly as Sam turned and dropped his overnight bag onto the bed. He bent down and rifled through the clothing and condom wrappers littered across the floor, plucking last night’s shirt and jeans from the pile. Even from across the room, Elliott could see that Sam’s face was red—why did he look so scared?—and the flush reached the top of his ears. He pulled on his jeans quickly.  

 

“You’re leaving,” Elliott repeated, more as if he were telling it to himself rather than asking Sam.

 

Sam stuffed his shirt into his bag and glanced at Elliott although he still wouldn’t look him in the eye. He shrugged. “No sense in staying around, is there?” Elliott opened his mouth and promptly closed it once more. He was confused, but he didn’t want to come across as clingy. Hookups shouldn’t be clingy. Sam spoke up again so Elliott wouldn’t have to. “Look, Elliott, you don’t need to play host to me just because you feel like you need to. I’m not going to hang around or overstay my welcome. Don’t feel guilty. I know when I—”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Sam’s eyes shot up to meet Elliott’s. “This is how it goes, isn’t it?” he asked, indignation creeping into his voice.

 

“How  _ what  _ goes?” 

 

Elliott could feel his heart kicking up its pace. He hated this feeling, of being defensive but not knowing why. He couldn’t understand why Sam seemed so dead set on leaving, and the note of finality that hung over his decision to go was unmistakable. It didn’t make any sense. This was the same Sam who had buried his face in Elliott’s chest after they made love and whispered that it had been a perfect night—only now, he seemed offended and upset about something. Why?

 

Sam ran a hand through his hair again and breathed out sharply. “How  _ this  _ goes. Whatever this is—was. A hookup, I guess. I don’t have a lot of experience with this but I know the routine. You have some fun and then you leave. We had fun, so now I’m leaving.”

 

“When you say ‘leaving,’” Elliott hedged as he tried to keep his voice level, “does that mean you’re not planning on coming back?”

 

Sam gripped the strap of his bag tightly and looked away again. “Basically.”

 

Elliott felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Sam,” he said, the distress in his voice thinly veiled now. “What happened? Did I do something?”

 

“Yoba, of course not,” Sam said quickly, surprise painting his features. “I’m just doing this so you don’t have to.”

 

“I don’t understand; I thought you enjoyed last night. If I did something that hurt you, please tell me.”

 

“Seriously Elliott, you didn’t do anything. Last night was… It was the best night of my fucking life, okay?”

 

“Then why are you leaving and not coming back?” Elliott’s tone was pitching up as he got more and more frustrated. He couldn’t for the life of him understand what was going through Sam’s head. 

 

“Because that’s what happens when you sleep with someone!” Sam almost shouted back. “Anytime someone’s been with me it’s just for sex, and then they leave when they get it. You and I danced around it longer than I’m used to, but now you got what you wanted. I don’t need to stick around, and I’d rather go on my own than wait around for you to kick me out yourself.”

 

Elliott stared at Sam like he hadn’t understood a word that he’d just said—in a way, he didn’t. The thought that maybe Sam was playing some sort of elaborate joke crossed his mind briefly before he realized that this was serious. Sam was fully intent on walking out of Elliott’s cabin and never returning because he thought that all Elliott cared about was having sex. The degree to which Sam had misunderstood Elliott’s intentions was baffling. A growing pain began to blossom in Elliott’s chest as he watched Sam try to put on a brave face and leave of his own accord as if there wasn’t a very real connection between them. Elliott had known that they couldn’t keep up as they were going forever, but he had stupidly assumed that they would have more time than this. More than just a few weeks in the summer. He had wanted that more than he could remember wanting anything else.

 

“I wasn’t going to kick you out,” was all Elliott could manage to say. 

 

Sam frowned at that. “Maybe not right now, but eventually? Yeah, you would. Just because you don’t want to hurt my feelings doesn’t mean I want to hang around to get pitied.”

 

Realization hit Elliott like a blow across the face. “Was this always your intention? To sleep with me and then leave?”

 

Sam rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. He seemed jittery, like he just wanted to get the hell out and avoid any further discussion. Elliott had no intention of letting him do that—not before he understood how they had gotten to this point.

 

“I mean, yeah,” he admitted. “I thought—isn’t that what you wanted, too?”

 

“No,” Elliott said softly, hurt painting his words as they left his mouth. “I wanted more than that.”

 

Something akin to pain flashed across Sam’s face for a moment before he collected himself. “Listen... I’m sorry, but I can’t hang around and do this until you get tired of me. My feelings are all over the place as it is; I can’t keep running around in secret with you. It’s just going to make things worse later.”

 

“Why does there need to be a  _ later _ ? Why are you so convinced that I’m just waiting for the chance to break up with you?”

 

“You can’t break up if you’re not dating,” Sam muttered, clenching and unclenching his fists. “We’re not dating.”

 

“Then what  _ are  _ we doing, Sam?”

 

“We’re not doing anything anymore. That’s the point! Fuck, I thought this was the plan the entire time. Why are you making it so hard for me to leave?”

 

“Because I love you.”

 

The words came out breathlessly, without Elliott even making the conscious decision to say them. He hadn’t wanted this—any of this. He had wanted a quiet morning and more days together and everything that he now realized Sam had never been planning on. Elliott went into last night thinking that it was the beginning of a new stage for Sam and him, completely oblivious to the fact that Sam had been marking it as the end. He’d been holding back from confessing in order to keep Sam from leaving, but if he was on his way out regardless, Elliott may as well lay everything on the table. 

 

Sam’s face went blank. He stared at Elliott, mouth slightly open in surprise, and dropped his overnight bag. Elliott could practically hear his own heart beating in the silence that enveloped them both. 

 

“What?” Sam said finally. “You  _ what _ ?”

 

Elliott wanted better words, a better context to say all this in. He didn’t want to throw his feelings at Sam in the hopes they would stick, but that’s where he found himself now. If there was even a chance that he could convince Sam to stay, he was going to try. 

 

“I love you,” he said again, firmer this time. “I didn’t tell you because I thought it would scare you away, but I can’t let you leave thinking that I was only using you. I’ve been in love before, I know how it feels, and I know with absolute certainty that I love you. I’m  _ in love _ with you. I agreed to keep things a secret to make things easier for you, but it’s not what I wanted. I want to be with you and take care of you and—Yoba, how did you not see that?”

 

The look on Sam’s face broke Elliott’s heart. He looked confused, scared, and more than a little dazed. Elliott realized that this was, in all likelihood, the first time someone had ever confessed their love to him before. He wished that he could have said it under better circumstances.

 

Sam sat down on the bed as if Elliott’s words had taken all the strength from his body. “You love me,” he said numbly, staring at Elliott helplessly.  _ “Me.” _

 

“Yes. I’m sorry for not telling you before. I just didn’t want to scare you.”

 

Sam hunched over, staring at the ground. “This isn’t what I—no one’s ever… Yoba, you love me.”

 

Elliott stood rooted in place as he watched Sam, trying to glean if he had just made things better or worse. It was nearly impossible to tell. They stayed in silence for what felt like forever until Sam started crying. Elliott saw Sam wipe at his eyes and heard him sniffle. He tried to say something more, but the words got caught in his throat. Once it became obvious that Sam couldn’t hold his tears back, the crying came harder. His shoulders shook and he buried his face in his hands. Elliott was at his side in a moment, pulling Sam into his chest and cradling the back of his head. 

 

Elliott had never seen Sam cry before, and he didn’t entirely know what to do. Sam wasn’t sobbing—he wasn’t making any noise at all beyond sharp intakes of breath—but he was also in no position to say anything. Elliott wasn’t sure how long he held him like that, with Sam shaking in his arms and fighting to steady his breathing. He didn’t even know if Sam wanted to be  _ touched _ right now, but he couldn’t seem to make himself let go. For his part, Sam didn’t make an attempt to push Elliott away. In its own sad way, that seemed like progress.

 

After a while, Sam sat up, shrugging off Elliott’s arms. He dragged his arm across his eyes and looked up at Elliott, red and puffy. His cheeks were streaked with tears, and there was a wet spot on Elliott’s sweater in the spot where Sam had cried against him. Still, he had dropped that lost expression from before he had broken down. There was resolve in his eyes. 

 

“Say it again,” he said softly.

 

Elliott felt his fear crack in his chest and bent down so that their eyes were level. “I love you, Sam Underhill.”

 

Sam smiled and let out a small, disbelieving laugh before burying his face in Elliott’s chest again. “One more time?” he asked, voice muffled.

 

Elliott smiled and rubbed between Sam’s shoulders through his shirt. “I love you. I’ll say it as many times as you want to hear it.”

 

“I want to hear it a lot.”

 

“I think I can manage that.”

 

Sam pulled back again, fixing his hair and dragging his palms down the front of his jeans. He reached for Elliott’s hand and squeezed. “Does this mean I don’t have to leave now?”

 

“Seeing as I didn’t want you to leave in the first place, yes. You can stay as long as you’d like.”

 

“Okay,” he said with a nod. He smirked up with that natural humor that always set Elliott at ease. “I’m just not really in a headspace to help Vincent with multiplication tables right now, you know?”

 

Elliott laughed, flipping his hand over to lace their fingers together. “Of course.”

 

“Listen, Elliott,” Sam ventured. “Are you okay if I don’t… say it back? Right away?”

 

“I didn’t confess so you would say it back. Don’t say anything that you don’t want to.”

 

“It’s not about  _ wanting,  _ it’s just—a lot. I’ve never said that before, not in that way. I’m sorry if that’s hard for you.”

 

Elliott leaned forward and kissed the top of Sam’s head gently. “I understand. It’s enough that you know how I feel. Don’t rush yourself, and I’ll be right here when you’re ready.”

 

“Thanks. For everything. I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of this. I don’t feel like I deserve it, honestly.”

 

“You deserve more than I can give you, Sam, but that won’t stop me from trying.”

 

Sam stood up, shaking out his arms. “Sorry, I’m just going to get something to drink. I need to move around a bit.”

 

“There’s coffee for you on the table.”

 

“Of course there is,” Sam said with a wry smile. “Thanks.” 

 

Sam brought the mugs back and perched on the mattress next to Elliott, leaning into his arm. “So what does this mean for us? Are we still running around behind everyone’s backs?”

 

“I think I’ve had enough sneaking around to last a lifetime. Haven’t you?”

 

Sam took a sip of his drink and smiled up at Elliott. “Yeah, I guess I have, too.”

 

“Well, in that case... Sam Underhill, would you do me the honor of allowing me to publicly date you?”

 

Sam’s blush warmed his entire face, and he looked down at his cup, slightly flustered. “I would.”

 

“Then it’s settled.” Elliott wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist and pulled him closer. “I love you, Sam, and I don’t care who knows that. I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

 

Sam smiled widely and tipped his face up to kiss Elliott. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” he murmured as he pulled away.

 

“I’ll do my best to live up to expectations.” Elliott leaned in to kiss Sam again before catching a familiar coconut scent. “Did you use my shampoo?”

 

“Oh, yeah. I also jerked off in your shower.”

 

“What?” Elliott sputtered, laughing out of pure whiplash from the high emotions of the past few minutes. “Why did you do that?”

 

Sam bristled and swirled the coffee in his mug. “I don’t know, your shampoo smells like you and I got caught up in it.”

 

Elliott laughed again, not able to stop himself. “That’s flattering in the oddest way.”

 

“You’re sure you still love me?” Sam said with a chuckle. 

 

“Of course. It’ll take more than that to scare me off.”

 

Sam settled into Elliott and sighed. “Thank goodness.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my friends! well last week ohsocyanide blessed us all with some of the sweetest smut I've ever laid my eyes on, and in this chapter I elected to follow that up with....the porn of emotional honesty and teary confessions of love, aw yiss! let us know if it tickled your heartstrings! 
> 
> ALSO, your fevered declarations of devotion for poppy/leah have been noted, catalogued, and passed to upper management. the planning is loose atm, but I am pumped to let you guys know that ohsocyanide and I are going to be releasing at least /some/ form of standalone poppy/leah fic in celebration of femslash february. so keep an eye out for that! much love to all our dear readers <3
> 
> -mercymain

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the product of a misunderstanding between two complete strangers and a forty-eight hour writing marathon. If you like what you've read, drop a comment or leave a kudos!
> 
> You can find us procrastinating at
> 
> uninspire-me.tumblr.com // palisadesucks.tumblr.com


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